


The Long Road to Freedom

by HallsofStone2941



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Happy Ending, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Sexual Slavery, Orcs Are Good Guys, brief mention of rape, brief mention of torture, too many tags give spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Third Age of Arda, the realms of North Rhovanion live under the banner of one race. Men have enslaved Elves, Dwarves, and even a few of their own. The nobles spend their time counting gold, trading slaves, partaking in festivals, and residing in the grand prize of their millennium-old victory: Erebor. Meanwhile, naught more than horror stories are heard from the mysterious and ominous lands to the West.</p><p>The living conditions are squalid, his position, frustrating, but his family is still safe and together. It is a better fate than some, and Thorin takes what he can get. Until the trader comes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: An Old Hatred

Thorin beats the metal with long-familiar anger, the cuff around his wrist clanging with every movement. He stands at an anvil, a forge in front of him. It is the forge he always uses, and the one his father used before him, and his grandfather; yet it never belonged to them, and it does not belong to him. There is another, next to his, once for his great-uncle, then uncle, then brother, and now his sister-son, but it belongs to Fili as little as Thorin’s belongs to him.

He remembers the day his nephews were separated (far, far too young); full of kicking, screaming, and crying from both parties, the guards forcing them apart. Fili knew how to work a forge, and was skilled like his ancestors before him, but Kili was a tinker, working with small pieces of precious stones and metals and transforming them into beautiful jewelry and knick knacks. Thus it was that Fili and Kili were taken to separate areas of the town.

At least, Thorin reflects, they are in the same place. The Master, a greasy, fat Man whose name no one can remember, keeps his entire slave population on the Lake – and what a ridiculous notion, to build a wooden town on a lake! – with his servant, Alfrid, overseeing the work. Alfrid is as much a slave as the rest of the town, but the oily servant enjoys following his master’s orders like an ugly puppy. He flaunts his control over the workforce and the guardsmen, and the guardsmen follow suit, reveling in the finer clothing, better shelter, and more plentiful food that accompany their stations, and growing fat from lack of true work until they resemble their master.

The Master himself rarely appears in Laketown, likely considering it too shabby to waste time in. A once mighty town, Thorin remembers, in the time before its current owner; now it is damp during all days of the year, and peeling. What paint remains is faded, and half the town has already sunk beneath the surface of the Lake, making quarters even more cramped. Most of the Master’s time is spent in the luxurious cities to the North: the sprawling streets of Dale, and the magnificent Mountain that looms above it.

And that, more than anything, is the source of Thorin’s anger. The Mountain: tales, passed down from generation to generation, tell of it populated by the Dwarven people, overflowing with Dwarf gold – they were prosperous, they were magnificent, they were respected by all. And then the armies came, masses of black movement on the open plains, and even the great Dwarven stronghold gave way. The gates fell before them, and the people were enslaved, and the tides of Men washed over all of North Rhovanion in the same manner. And so, while Thorin toils at the threat of whips and the orders of the Master, he sees the Mountain, his birthright and the rightful home of his people, rising in the distance, filled to the brim with lords and nobles that would never understand – and did not deserve – the beauty around them.

*****

“It could be worse.” Sitting at the tiny kitchen table in their small home, Thorin jerks out of his thoughts at the voice near his ear. Fili has a hand on the dirty and tattered brown rags covering his arm, and is clearly trying to get Thorin out of the mood into which he so often falls. Of course, he knows his elder sister-son is right. Dis and Kili could be far away, rather than on the Lake with them (though the quarters for their vocation keep them from seeing each other often). They could be forced to work alongside Elves, who are rarely seen in Laketown. Or they could—

“We could be in Eriador,” Fili adds, a healthy dose of relief in his voice at being _far, far away_ from that accursed land. Thorin shudders. Not much is known about the Western world, beyond rumor. The Eriadorans live behind the Goblin-infested Misty Mountains, their ways acknowledged by all to be barbaric – worse than the life of a slave. Some say they are cannibals, fighting each other hand to hand; the winner eats the loser for dinner. Others say they breed with Orcs, and the wild mutants hunt Rhovans for fun. Traders come, occasionally: dark, brooding Men that keep their faces hidden in shadow. They buy slaves in droves, who are never seen nor heard from again. The Dwarves and Men that frequent the local taverns will tell frightening tales of life as an Eriadoran slave; barely enough food to move, everyone is a walking skeleton. Slaves, forced into chambers filled with flammable gas, then set on fire; rape, murder, abuse. Rhovan children are warned to be good or else the traders will come and whisk them away to a fate worse than death. Fili is right: their life could be much, much worse.

The meal is meager. Dwalin, living in rags that hang loose yet are still too short to adequately cover him, does the cooking with the little supplies he has, and Thorin and Fili clean up afterward. Dwalin lost his brother a few years ago to the Eriadorans, and Thorin’s brother and father went missing (“stolen”, some of the guards whispered when they thought the Dwarves could not hear) before Fili was born. Dis’ husband had died shortly after Kili’s birth; an attack on the caravans heading to Dale for the annual festivals and auction. Their story is repeated in different ways throughout Laketown, and therefore, anyone grouped together takes up the pieces and forms crazy-quilt families that are odd but no less devoted to one another. If nothing else, the slaves stick together.


	2. Chapter One: A New Owner

Every year, a great festival happens in Dale during the second week of spring, with an auction as the main event. They travel separately; the caravans, like Laketown, are organized by vocation. Some masters simply use the festival to show off their hordes of slaves – and therefore wealth – while others offer them for sale. Thorin wonders if Dis and Kili are in another caravan, and then asks himself if it would not be better if they were kept behind.

He has been shown at the auctions many times, but always makes sure to reveal the worst side of his temper. Masters prefer docility in their servants, no matter how well they work, and Thorin requires less than two minutes before all interest wanes. The Master dislikes such disobedience, but Thorin will take the thirty lashes in order to remain with his family.

He looks out at the crowd gathered today. The metal cuffs around his wrists are tied to chains that stretch his arms from side to side, but not uncomfortably; his torso is bare, revealing the strength in his arms and abdomen. He stands, tall and proud, glaring at the spectators, and when the auctioneer gets too close he tries to bite him. From his vantage point, he can see everyone; the stable master (he has straw sticking out of his hair) eying him, the Man-girls giggling, pointing, and blushing, the richly-robed fat Man with a greedy gleam in his eye. Something at the back catches his eye. Covered by a cloak dark enough to make him melt into the shadows (were there any) is a Man. _A Ranger_ , Thorin thinks, fear coursing through him. The Rangers act as traders for Eriador; they are brooding and frightening, and Thorin has only ever seen them in brief glimpses at the festivals. The Man looks out of place in the cheery atmosphere, but Thorin can only focus on the feeling of his stare, directed straight at the Dwarf.

Suddenly working for a poncy noble does not seem so bad.

Thorin straightens up and stops snarling. He stands stock still, the epitome of obedience, as the bidding starts. When the Ranger makes no move to bid, he begins to relax, but as the interest wanes while the price rises, he sees the figure move to trump the current high. Again and again, they go back and forth, the Ranger's silent, cold darkness causing spectators to clear a space around him even as they watch. Thorin begins to despair. Few people are willing to waste much money on a slave, especially one of his age, and the Ranger seems determined. Finally, like the last stroke from Mahal’s hammer to smite him down, the other bidder throws his hands up in the air. “Fine, then! Keep it, if you want it that much – I’ll find myself another one!”

Thorin is taken by a handler as the Ranger moves to give the auctioneer the money. He does not know the bid (was too busy watching the Ranger), but fears the reason why his new owner was so damned determined. _I hope they’ll let me say goodbye,_ he thinks morosely, sitting on the floor of the shed with a new set of manacles binding his feet to the wall.

In the end, he does not have to. A few more Dwarves stumble in – there is the fisherman, and another weapons-crafter. Nori is known for nicking extra food, which he shares around the slaves of Laketown. Dwalin comes in, snarling at his handler, then plops down beside Thorin once the Man is gone. There is resignation in his eyes.

More come – a few Men, a few Elves. Fili joins them, much to Thorin’s dismay. A red-headed Elf comes in – and doesn’t Thorin recognize her? Fili gives an anguished cry when the next Dwarf is shoved through – it is Kili, and, that’s right, he was showing off his jewelry-making skills to the red-headed Elf when the guards first took him away from his brother. They sit next to each other, and Fili is quick to go to Kili’s side. There is fear in Kíli’s eyes as he buries his face in his brother’s shoulder.

The last to come in leaves Thorin breathless. Dis makes the thirtieth in the tiny shed, and now all of Thorin’s family is truly lost. Images flash in front of his mind, everything he has ever heard about Eriador forcing its way through his brain, putting Dis’, Fili’s, and Kili’s faces on victims tortured and killed. When Dis crouches in front of him, blue gaze meeting his, he has tears in his eyes. She rests her forehead on his.

He does not know what makes him say it; does not even think about the impossibility of the task; he only blurts out: “I will get you out of this. All of you.” And Dis accepts his declaration, however foolish it may be.

The door to the shed opens, and the cloaked Ranger walks in. The cowl over his face keeps Thorin from seeing anything above the mouth, which is frowning. The man seems to look them over – it is hard to tell – before speaking in a low voice.

“My name is Bard, and I will be escorting you to Eriador.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to the wonderful wanderingsmith for beta'ing this work


	3. Chapter 2: New Lands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to post this yesterday - sorry!

They spend the night in the shed, and in the morning are given packs to carry with them. Thorin finds two water flasks and multiple wrappings of bread in his. The bread is cram, a disgusting but nutritious food that is often eaten during the harsh Northern winters. He knows that it will sustain him, though leave him unsatisfied. He takes a bite for the morning, blinking at the unexpected sweetness.

“Lembas,” the red-headed Elf, who Kili introduced as Tauriel, murmurs, staring at her own waybread in awe.

Bard, who is watching them prepare, nods. “One bite can feed a grown Man for a day. Ration it carefully. We have a long way to go and cannot afford to make stops to hunt.” It did not need saying that the Ranger would not offer a bow to his slaves, and with one man hunting for thirty people, it would take a couple of hours, Thorin assumes, to find enough. Luckily, Thorin is certain everyone knows how to ration, due to the nature of winters in the North, and the parents of the children would be responsible for handling their lembas.

Thorin is still appalled that the Ranger bought children (though he purchased their parents as well), and even a pregnant Dwarrowdam. There are two families, and a Man couple that have seen many winters. In fact, Thorin and Dwalin are among the few that might have, in another time, been mistaken for warriors, or anyone capable of difficult labor.

Thorin half expects another Ranger to join them as they leave the merry streets of Dale, but none appear. Bard’s confidence in himself – both in protecting thirty people against the Wilds and in protecting himself from the slaves he bought – causes Thorin to despair; the Ranger clearly knows what he is doing. Escape is futile; no one would dare fight a Ranger or risk getting lost in the wilderness, and the shackles binding the slaves together serve to further deter any escape attempts. Despite this, Thorin is determined to make good on his promise to Dis: he _will_ free them. No matter the cost.

The sight of the vulnerable men, women, and children around Thorin makes him sick, knowing what lies ahead. He wishes he could free them all, right here, right now. But the key to the chains hangs around Bard’s neck, and Thorin cannot quite summon the courage to attempt (and likely fail) to bring the Man down. There is nothing he can do.

For now.

*****

They travel West, first, crossing the bridge over the River Running. It hurts to be so close to the Mountain, but by the time the sun has set that first evening, it is far behind them, and the gloom of Mirkwood looms ahead. Once a home to the Elves, Greenwood the Great fell to dark forces after the Men enslaved the Firstborn, and is now wild and avoided at all costs. Bard informs them that they will pass through Mirkwood going directly west. Despite the group’s misgivings, none of which are voiced to their silent guide, they are through the forest and on the other side in under a week with no trouble whatsoever.

With the forest at their backs, Bard explains to them that most of the danger comes from the southern part of Mirkwood, and then tells them to rest for the remainder of the day; they will head due south for about forty days with the forest on their left and the Misty Mountains on their right.

Thorin spends his time alternating between worrying about his family and worrying about the Goblins in the mountains. After the fourth night, though they have had no trouble so far, Thorin decides he will not attempt to free his family until they have moved further away from the threatening peaks. His concern for his family lessens as well, much to his surprise. Despite Bard’s need for urgency, the group is not pushed anywhere near their limits. They rest as soon as the sun begins to set, and leave their campsite nearly two hours after dawn. Thorin is usually up with the sun, and always sees Bard with a bow in his lap, looking out to the East where the sun rises. Sometimes the Dwarf thinks he catches the Man gazing at the group, particularly the children, with a slightly upturned mouth, but he does not know if he smiles at the sight or at the thought of their futures in Eriador. The former gives Thorin warm feelings for the Ranger; the latter makes his gut curl and the heat of the sun seem cold.

Along the way, they cross two other Rangers that go by the names of Strider and Ranwe. The three Rangers speak in hushed tones, and Ranwe and Strider take turns at watch that night, for which Bard seems immensely grateful. Thorin realizes the Man takes watch all night and marches during the day; how on Arda did he get his rest? The Dwarf is troubled by the thought until he realizes that sympathy is the last thing Bard needs, or deserves. The two Rangers are gone by the time Thorin awakens the next morning, and the encounter fades from his mind.

*****

After two boring weeks of nothing but mountains on one side and forest on another, a new development is welcomed, but then quickly despised. Skittering noises have begun to accompany their marching, and the sounds only increase in frequency after the sun has set. Almost automatically, the children and women are moved to the center of the circle, while the more able-bodied men remain vigilant on the outside along with their guide. On the third night, Bard does not allow them to stop, instead pressing them onward, and Thorin cannot find it in himself to complain. The children are stumbling, though, and their process is slow. Bard halts them and moves among them quickly.

“Elves: carry the children and move to the middle; other men, move to the outside – you will find daggers in hidden compartments in your packs. Everyone else, take the packs off the men and get inside the circle.” He is removing manacles and chains as he speaks, reattaching them where they make sense. Elves, children, and mothers are attached, three together in the event an escape is necessary. The others are given no such restraints, and for the first time in Thorin’s life, he is free from the binding metal for more than a few minutes. He moves to the front of the pack, behind Bard, and at his signal, Dwalin moves to the back. Reoriented, the company marches forward, ears and eyes straining, barely a noise heard, until the sun peeks over the horizon.

Bard then all but orders the group to rest – as if they need any urging. The sun is warm, and within minutes of sitting down, Thorin is asleep. He wakes up some time in the afternoon, groggy and comfortable, and, as he is one of the first up, he allows himself to rise slowly, enjoying the foreign luxury of a leisurely awakening.

After an hour, everyone has woken and, by unspoken agreement, gathers the packs they had discarded, and then continue their trek. They walk until dark, and then the noises start again, louder than before. The group adjusts itself into the same arrangement as the previous night, every member taut as a bowstring. Even when the sun finally rises, the creatures in the forest do not cease, and Bard drives them all day long.

The sun is nearly setting again, and the group has not stopped for more than a few necessary breaks. Up ahead, Thorin can see a group of trees on the edge of the forest, forming a wide circle – a perfect place to sleep, as the ground is dry and covered in moss, and this part of Mirkwood seems less menacing than the rest of it. Tauriel points to an odd structure rising from the ground, claiming it to have once been the beginning of the Elven path through the forest. He desperately hopes Bard will let them rest, as they have been walking more than twenty-four hours at this point, and Thorin is beginning to feel it. The others around him are dragging their feet, and even Bard seems to be slowing down. Suddenly a cry comes from somewhere behind him.

“Zora!” Thorin spins around at the voice. Zora is the pregnant Dwarf, and she is suffering the worst of the exhaustion. Banír, her husband, is now holding her as she lay limp in his arms. He gently lowers her to the ground as the group stops and turns. Bard strides quickly through the crowd before kneeling swiftly by the unconscious Dwarrowdam’s side. He begins examining her, checking her wrists and neck. Everyone is silent until a voice speaks from the back.

“Let me through, I’m a healer,” Gloín’s older brother, Oín, is forcing his way through the throng while grumbling at the gathered slaves. “Give her some air, now, she can’t relax with you all standing so close.”

He kneels on the side opposite from Bard; together he and the Man work over her while Banír wrings his hands behind them. Finally the two men sit up. “Just exhausted,” Oín declares, and as Bard doesn’t disagree, Thorin assumes he has come to the same conclusion. The elder healer looks at the Man. “She should not be moved any further tonight.” It is a suggestion, but Oín’s tone implies he will fight the matter if he must.

Bard sits on his heels and looks around at the group. At this angle, Thorin can catch a glimpse of dark eyes in shadow, but nothing more. Everyone is exhausted, swaying on their feet. Some of the younglings are slumped against their carriers, the older Men have moved to sit on the ground, and even the Elves seem to hold themselves with a bone-deep weariness.

“Very well,” the Ranger says. “Move to the center of that clearing. Those that are able: gather the moss, dead leaves, and all other debris, and push it out in a circle.” He stands, removes everyone’s chains, then surveys the scene. The group quickly moves to their new campsite. “Everything: twigs, leaves, every piece of moss. There needs to be nothing but dirt for a,” he pauses, looking at the group, then at the clearing, “thirty-five foot radius. Then scrape all the debris from the tree line to that mark. Make sure nothing flammable is anywhere between the edge of the circle and the trees.”

The able Dwarves, Men, and Elves do so, using blankets and cloaks to sweep the majority of detritus to the designated mark, and eying the forest, from which clicks and rustles are still audible. Their work leaves a fifteen-foot gap between the circle line and the trees, and the requested inner radius. The result is a half-wall of branches, leaves, and moss. Bard then climbs a tree and starts breaking off the branches that are facing the circle and tossing them onto the “wall”. Thorin is not certain what the Man plans to do, but the Elves seem to understand and move to copy the Ranger, scaling the trees with ease and snapping branches to add to their barrier. Bard then instructs the women and children to grab any branches that missed the pile and rest them on the wall, while he watches the forest with his bow strung, protecting them against any sudden attacks. When they are done, the whole thing is about two and a half feet high – up to Thorin’s waist. Bard grabs several branches and walks to the forest, dipping them in the odd tar-like substance the trees produce, before returning them to the pile. He does this all around the circle; then carefully steps over the barrier.

By now, the sun has completely set, and only a small amount of daylight remains. There is no fire in the center of the camp, but the night is warm enough that they do not need one. In fact, with the stars shining brightly above them, Thorin would normally enjoy such a night. He is kept tense, however, by Bard, who now has his bow in hand with an arrow nocked, his eyes watching the forest where the clicking noises are growing in intensity. He has a branch wrapped in leaves and dipped in tar; as the group settles down, he lights the torch and squats, eyes darting back and forth, entire body tensed and alert.

Thorin is almost asleep when the noises grow louder. Closer. He opens his eyes and sits up, propping his upper body on his elbows. He stares, trying to see past the flickering glow of the torch. Once he does, he wishes he could not.

They are… _things_. Large, black, with sickly, gleaming bodies and a dozen eyes apiece, watching and waiting. They are bigger than Thorin, and their abdomens swell largely behind them. Pincers clack, appendages rustle against the ground, the trees, and Thorin suddenly understands Bard’s urgency. Children of Ungoliant: creatures of nightmares and horror stories, less than a hundred feet away. They come closer to the makeshift barrier, and Thorin wants to curse everything Man-made; what good will three feet of brush do against the hordes?

Bard stands up slowly, torch in right hand, bow in left. _Shoot them!_ Thorin wants to shout. He will hold the damn torch if the Ranger needs to see. Meanwhile, the spiders come closer, scuttling forward, then back, as if questioning the presence of some dark magic. Finally they appear to determine the group is unprotected and rush forward, pincers clicking excitedly.

As soon as the first one nears the base of the barrier, Bard throws the torch. It lands on the wall of _very_ flammable tar, and spreads around the entire circle faster than Thorin thought possible. The creatures closest let out shrieks as they catch fire, but are quickly silenced with the muted thud of Bard’s arrows. The noise has awoken the camp, and the children scream and cower against their mothers. The women’s eyes are wide; the men seem prepared for battle. The entire group watches silently as Bard dances from side to side, firing arrows. Each one twangs as it leaves the bow and thuds as it hits its mark. The only other sounds are the fire crackling high and the spiders clicking and shrieking as they fall to well-placed missiles. The fire is hot, and the group draws inward to avoid it, but it does its job in protecting the people inside.

Bard is halfway through his second quiver, and Thorin begins to despair. There seems to be no end to the spiders, but the Ranger does not have an unlimited supply of arrows. Just as Thorin contemplates the possible scenarios and outcomes (most of which involve the death of everyone), a roar sounds from the southwest, like that of a bear. Bard’s head turns, firing an arrow in the opposite direction while he registers the sound, before turning back to the task at hand. Five minutes later, a loud crashing is heard from the forest. Out of the dark, tossing spiders aside in its powerful jaws, a massive bear hurtles towards the circle. It stops just shy of the fire and turns its attention to the ugly creatures, breaking shells and removing heads with frightening ease. The combined efforts of Man and beast decimate the remaining spiders, and with a final flourish, Bard withdraws one of his few arrows left, turns his head and torso, and shoots over Thorin’s head. The spider stumbles back before falling down, twitching and shuddering before lying still.

Bard is breathing heavily, and the skin Thorin can see on him is red from the fire and exertion. Thorin thinks now would be a good time to shoot the bear, which has decided to stand a safe distance away from the fire, looking at the Ranger. Instead, Bard faces the creature, crosses his right foot in front of his left, holds his arms out to the side (bow still in his left hand), and bows at the waist. The bear dips its head before curling up and resting its head on its paws. Bard removes the quivers from his back and lies down, clearly exhausted. Taking this as a sign, Thorin allows himself to lie flat, staring up at the stars. It is not long before they are swimming, and then he is asleep.


	4. Chapter 3: New Lodgings

As his vision slowly comes back to him, the first thing Thorin notices is the massive man standing a few feet away from him. He is not even sure if he is a Man – the giant towers over the Elves by at least two feet. He has enormous arms and feet; his torso is bare and he wears naught but a pair of trousers. His beard is bristly and cuts a square around his face, while his hair becomes a mane that runs to his lower back. His eyes are gentle and brown, but there is something animalistic about him. Apropos of nothing, Thorin remembers the massive bear from the night before. He also notes the black manacle around the giant’s left wrist, four links of chain hanging from it. Thorin has never seen craftsmanship like it before; perhaps it is Eriadoran.

He looks up at the Man’s face, only to see large brown eyes staring back at him. The other holds his gaze for a minute before twisting his torso to address the forest.

“Your warren is waking up, little rabbit.” His voice is deep, with an odd accent – it sounds like boulders shifting and settling after a landslide. From the pile of black carcasses – Thorin shudders to see the sheer number of evil creatures, even though they are slain – a green-cloaked figure emerges. Bard appears to be retrieving as many arrows as he can while he carefully picks his way across their makeshift barrier. The fire has become nothing more than ash and a few embers, but Thorin thanks the ingenuity of the Ranger. As Bard passes the massive Man, he mutters something that Thorin does not catch, but the bear of a man rumbles: a laugh, Thorin realizes.

The sun is high up by the time everyone awakes. Bard informs them that they will be walking a short distance to Beorn’s (the giant) house, where they will be resting a few days. The news relieves everyone, and their steps are considerably lighter as they make their way west and slightly south. Within three hours, they are standing on the crest of a hill, looking down at the most peaceful valley Thorin has ever seen.

Beorn’s lodgings are a slice of heaven, and Thorin would happily grow old and die there. The main house has a large table and multiple guest rooms that make the Dwarf assume travelers pass through here often. They are waited upon by an odd assortment of animals: goats, sheep, and a few dogs. It feels strange, but Thorin is so grateful to have someone else serve him for once that he does not question it. Outside there is a river that is perfect for swimming in, as well as hot springs for bathing and relaxing. There are places to dry clothes, a garden, grass as soft as goose feathers to rest in, and giant bees that buzz around contentedly and appear as gentle and curious about the newcomers as the dogs do. The sun is warm, the air smelling like grass and honey and water, and there is a breeze slight enough that, while it cools any perspiration that forms, it does not chill.

The company first eats from Beorn’s selection of bread, honey, and assorted vegetables (mostly consumed by the Elves). There is no meat, but after weeks of lembas, and a lifetime of hard bread and flavorless stews, the meal is a banquet. Not long after, everyone trips over themselves to get to the hot springs or river; even the children feel a great desire to get clean.

Thorin is one of the last out. Before he leaves, he sees Bard pull the chains the slaves had worn out of his pack – how odd that Thorin had not even noticed their absence all this time – and hand them to Beorn. The Man (whom the Elves assert is the bear Thorin saw last night) takes them and shoves them unceremoniously in a cupboard.

Thorin contemplates the act as he bathes. If Bard is putting the shackles away, then he does not intend to tie the company to each other for the remainder of their journey. They will have the freedom of movement and the comfort of not having metal dig into their skin.

They could leave.

The thought draws Thorin up short, and he sits up in the hot spring. They could leave. They could grab their packs, the food and the daggers that Bard supplied them with. They are far enough from North Rhovanion that no one would find them – assuming Bard did not follow them. The Wilds are dangerous – there are beasts, not to mention Hillsmen and Orcs. But what better opportunity would they have?

“What’s on your mind?” Dwalin splashes down next to him, foregoing grace and decorum in favor of plopping his tired body in the warm, soothing water.

“We could leave. We have supplies, food, a perfect opportunity,” he speaks in a low voice, as if someone might overhear and tell their escort. “The Wilds are dangerous, but we know how to fight, and what we don’t know we can learn.”

“But?”

“But…look around you, Dwalin. I have never seen slaves so kindly cared for. I have never seen our children laugh so much,” he points to the younglings gathered around Bifur and Bofur, braiding the former’s hair while the latter uses his dagger to carve toys, “nor everyone else look so relaxed. Mahal, I’ve never even seen our races mingle so much.”

He can see the truth in his statement. Galion and a couple other Elves are sitting beneath a tree in animated discussion with Gloín and Grila, while Gimli watches and listens intently. Fili, Kili, and Tauriel are lying in the grass doing Durin knows what. The Man-parents watch their children interact with the two Urs, and Thorin can see the older couple sitting cross-legged in the grass, simply resting against each other. Zora and Banír are in their own private hot spring, and everyone else is either swimming in the river or simply dipping their toes in. Laughter frequents each group, especially from his nephews, and smiles are on everyone’s faces. Thorin turns to Dwalin.

“What do we know about Eriador, Dwalin? I mean, actually know about it?”

“Our families…”

“…Could have easily been killed on the road. We nearly were.” Thorin settles back. “Maybe this ends in fire and death – I don’t know. But _this_ , right here, right now, is the most wonderful thing I have ever seen. I think we should stay a little longer – at least until we’re over the Mountains.” Dwalin looks unconvinced.

“Do share, brother dear,” Dis says, coming over. Her clothes are soaked and clinging to her body. Dwalin offers an appreciative glance, a running joke among them, and cringes when both Thorin and Dis cuff him over the head.

“I was considering staying with Bard. At least for now,” Thorin tells her. She nods.

“I was thinking the same thing. See how it turns out,” Dwalin’s shoulders slump and he sighs. He knows he will not be able to convince both siblings, and he would never consider leaving them. They heave themselves out of the springs and sprawl in the grass. With the hum of bees in his ears and the sun shining pleasantly down, Thorin is asleep in moments.

*****

The evening is spent around Beorn’s hearth. Story-telling is popular, along with songs. The bear-man is swarmed by the children, telling them the history of his people. It is a somewhat sad tale, but so are many of the stories they have heard. Elves, Men, and Dwarves are scattered around the room, leaning against pillars or each other, braiding, busying their hands (Bofur’s have not stopped – who knew the fisherman was so talented with wood), or just listening. Bard is sitting at the table, leaning towards the group. He has a pipe in his mouth, but no smoke rises from it; when he removes it for a brief period, Thorin sees the stem is chewed.

Galion is sitting slightly away from the rest of the group. He appears to be listening, but his attention is more focused on the board in front of him. There are a few dozen carved figurines on opposite sides: a game of sorts. A shadow falls across the Elf. Bard looks down at the board.

“I have yet to play an Elf and win. May I?” It is odd to hear such a courteous question from the Man that paid for them all; some heads turn. Galion inclines his head, and Bard reaches down and moves a piece.

Thorin half pays attention to the game, but is more focused on the tales. One eye watches, though, and he sees that, two moves into the game, Bard pauses, and then shakes his head.

“Play the game properly, if you please, Master Elf. I cannot get better if you allow me to win.” It is an open invitation; a dangerous one. If Galion does as asked, and wins, the consequences are unknown and possibly dire. The Elf leans forward, a look of undivided focus crossing his face, and he moves another piece. The game goes on, and Thorin listens to the tale of how Gloín and Grila met (for the hundredth time, but the children love it). Only Galion’s voice, sometime later, interrupts him. It quavers uncharacteristically in the normally calm Elf, and when Thorin looks, he is pale.

“Checkmate,” his voice is barely audible, and he seems to await the punishment Bard will bestow upon him.

The Ranger huffs, short and sharp. “A good game, Master Elf. You are well-versed. And,” there is a tilt to the Ranger’s mouth that is entirely uncharacteristic, “I do believe I am getting better.” He walks away, and Galion only stares, shocked, mouth open in a brilliant impression of a fish, if Thorin says so himself.

The sound of Bofur breaking into song about the Man in the Moon seeking a “beer so brown” rouses the Elf out of his musings. The song is a popular one, sung in taverns and gatherings, and everyone sings and claps along jovially, laughing outright at Bofur’s miming. Food is thrown in the custom of the Dwarves (to the children’s delight, and Thorin catches an Elf adding to the pile), and the Dwarf will swear he saw a tomato fly from the direction of the lone Ranger sitting at the oversized table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to the wonderful wanderingsmith for betaing this work


	5. Chapter 4: New Weapons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short little transition chapter to get us from point A to point B

They leave Beorn’s laden with fresh bread and honey that the children wormed away from the bear-man. Given the practiced way he and the Ranger work together as they wrap the suspiciously-waiting food, it is not the first time someone has successfully begged sweets.

Their trek is now…different. More open, more free. The forest still stands to their left, but the space between it and the mountains has increased, giving the company more breathing room. Talk is lighthearted and fresh during the day, the children run up and down the invisible path, and the adults walk taller. The evenings are filled with laughter and songs before the sleeping arrangements configure themselves akin to the groupings found in Beorn’s backyard.

Four more days into their journey, the company is halted in a large rocky area barely an hour past midday. Bard selects a large portion of the company: all the adult male Dwarves, plus Gimli, Dis, Tauriel and the three male Elves (the other woman was considered, then rejected), and the younger Man, father to the three Man-children with the company.

They are led away from the rest of the group. Looking around, Thorin realizes the strongest, most able people of the group are with him. Fear curls cold in his gut. Was Bard eliminating the people from whom opposition was most likely to come? Would he kill them, and take the remaining eleven to Eriador, likely without a fight? Why would he buy so many strong individuals if he never planned to keep them?

The answer washes over Thorin with cold certainty. Their trek by northern Mirkwood was treacherous, and Bard would have needed sacrifices in the event that they had been overrun by spiders. Furthermore, bringing families together made them more willing to follow.

It was all a ruse. They are going to die.

Bard stops beside a rock formation. “It’s around here…somewhere…” he mutters before heading to a particularly large boulder. He leans his weight into it and pushes, but the rock does not move.

“Thorin, Dwalin,” Bard says. He has been using first names for several days now. _To soften us up before the slaughter_ , Thorin thinks bitterly, but he moves with Dwalin to help the Ranger. Together, they move the boulder aside, and Bard grabs a waiting torch and lights it.

The group is led down into the tunnel. There are a few twists and turns, and then Bard steps aside as the path leads to a large room. The Ranger lights a wicker string near the entrance, and the fire zooms around and lights torches hanging on the wall of the cavern.

Weapons. Thorin sees at least two boatloads of weapons hanging from the wall or resting in barrels. There are swords, axes, twin swords, twin axes, hammers, daggers, and bows and arrows for Men, Elves, and Dwarves. Thorin sees a coiled whip and a number of other things so bizarre that, even as a weaponsmith, he does not know what to call them. The dangerous implements are a mixture of Dwarf, Elf, and Man make, and Thorin can see that even the Man-made weapons are of the highest quality.

_Torture devices? Will he kill us with weapons crafted by our kin’s hands?_ Thorin looks at Dwalin, trying to communicate that they will fight to escape this fate. Before Dwalin can reply or acknowledge him, however, Bard speaks.

“Well? Don’t just stand there. Choose your weapon.” The group stares dumbly at him, and, beneath the cowl, Bard’s mouth suddenly grins, teeth and all. “Southern Rhovanion and the Wilds in Eriador are teeming with creatures that, like the spiders, would eat you as soon as look at you. I cannot protect thirty people at once, and I may need your help in attempting to do so again.” He gestures to the weapons. “Take your pick. As many as you wish – I don’t care! But know that whatever you choose you must carry with you. Do not slow our progress.” There is dead silence in the chamber. Then Gimli walks forward, tentatively, and lifts a curved axe, Dwarf-made, from the wall. Gloín looks so proud Thorin thinks tears might actually start falling. The red-bearded Dwarf moves up beside his son and picks an axe identical but slightly larger than Gimli’s. The movement unfreezes everyone else. The Elves immediately go to the bows, while the others scatter throughout the room.

Every slave gets some training. Young Elves, born after the warriors of their people were killed or scattered during the invasion of the North, are often taken out to the woods and taught to hunt with a bow to take advantage of their keen eyesight and flawless aim. Those that were not warriors and were therefore taken as slaves, join them, presumably passing on the tricks of olden days. The people that stay in towns are taught a small amount, in the event of attack, but not enough to fight against their own guards. Weaponsmiths must also know the basics; it is impossible to create a weapon without first knowing how it works. And Dwarves, in particular, secretly pass down the art of fighting, an integral part of their heritage, from generation to generation.

Thorin sees Tauriel examine an Elven bow. Kili is next to her, watching, and she lifts a Dwarven bow and hands it to him. He takes it tentatively, then listens as she shows him how to hold and use it. Thorin considers the fit his ancestors might have thrown, but finds that he himself cannot summon the proper anger. Too much time has passed, and too many times have Dwarves and Elves suffered together under the rule of Men, for the old disputes to hold any ground. As long as his nephew dedicates himself to learning his weapon of choice, he could take up the slingshot and Thorin would not object.

Fili, it appears, is trying to equip himself with as many daggers as he can. Dwalin has selected an impressive-looking war-hammer and a pair of dual axes, as well as some knuckledusters. Nori has chosen curved knives; Oín appears to be favoring a large, weighted staff, and Bofur has chosen a mattock. Bifur has a boar spear, and Bombur has…a ladle. Well, to each their own.

Dis, he can see, has taken the whip, and Thorin shudders to think of the damage she could do with it. Thorin himself is examining an axe, hollow-bladed and square, and a broadsword, just deciding on them when another catches his eye. He lifts it and unsheathes the metal. Obviously of Elven make, the blade gleams beautifully, untainted by time. The craftsmanship is flawless, and the sword feels like perfection in his grasp. He hears someone come up behind him.

“That is a sword of great renown. It was forged for the Goblin Wars. Orcrist, it is named, and has seen many battles.” Tauriel is staring at the lettering on the blade with the Elven equivalent of awe. Thorin hands it to her, but she shakes her head. “I would not do it justice. Keep it; it will serve you much better.” She moves away, and Thorin examines the sword for a moment before adding it to his collection.

The group returns to the sunlight and reseals the entrance; without knowing it was there, Thorin would pass it without a second glance. They return to the others, who certainly look relieved, and spend the rest of the day testing their new weapons. Bard watches, and calls out advise, occasionally, telling Dwalin to “let the weight of the hammer move you forward, and focus on guiding it to your target”, and informing Fili and Dis that throwing knives or cracking a whip is all in the wrist movement.

The company’s days have a new pattern: they walk in the morning and early afternoon, the newly armed members growing accustomed to the added weight, and before dusk they practice while Bard offers pointers. Thorin’s suspicion slowly melts away as he realizes the Ranger has no hidden agenda in providing them with weapons.

Time seems to fly, and Thorin is surprised to realize that two weeks must have already passed since they left Beorn’s, because the Golden Realm of Lorien looms ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As away, thank you to wanderingsmith for editing this fic


	6. Chapter 5: New Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is by far my favorite chapter. Enjoy!

Unlike Mirkwood, Lothlorien appears untouched by darkness or evil. Trees stretch up to infinite heights above them, and a golden light shines through and glints off of all it touches. There are a few birds singing high above them, and wildlife can be seen passing through the trees, watching the company with curious, unafraid expressions.

“The heart of Elvendom, once upon a time,” Bard says by way of introduction. “The flora and fauna are sacred; anyone that kills in these woods meets an…unfortunate end.” Thorin swears he sees a _tree_ walking, several hundred yards away, and the Elves whisper _“Ents”_ in hushed and awed voices.

Eventually they come upon a place that seems younger, as if the inhabitants left only a hundred years ago rather than a thousand, and filled with even more golden light. “Caradhras,” the other Elf-woman, Ithríel, murmurs, eyes filled with sadness. Bard nods, solemn.

“Lothlorien is empty, of course. Its inhabitants sailed to the West long before war touched its borders, leaving behind only a powerful magic. Evil cannot come within a hundred yards before finding its feet redirected, and the forest acts as a sanctuary for all kind souls.”

They rest that night beneath the great trees, staring up at the wooden stairs. Starlight seems to reflect into small glass baubles that are strung throughout the branches, creating a white-blue glow around them. Thorin is not sure if he is imagining things, but the sound of Elvish voices, singing gently as if in a lullaby, reaches his ears, distant and soft.

 _Rest, Thorin, son of Thrain, for you and all you hold dear are safe,_ the woman’s voice is unexpected but surprisingly soothing, and Thorin relaxes automatically, wondering about the owner of the voice, no doubt far away where slavery and death do not exist even in dreams.

*****

They come out of the forest the next day and begin their ascent into the Mountains. Thorin is uncertain how they will pass through without being attacked by Goblins, and is wholeheartedly grateful for the weapons on his back. By mid-afternoon they are resting on a rocky white outcropping, staring down at the Woods of Lorien. Everyone is panting and out of breath, and that is perhaps why no one notices the dark figure scurrying between the rocks toward them. Tauriel is the first to see it, arrow notched as she spins around to face the threat. Thorin sees what can only be an Orc staring at the arrow a few yards away. It is black-skinned and mottled, its jaw juts out at an odd angle, and the armor in its back looks like a shell made of bone, with large spikes sticking up behind its head. Tauriel releases the arrow, but before it can hit its mark, it is knocked violently to the side by another. Bard’s own bow is drawn, and he walks quickly over to where the Orc stands.

“Lower your weapons, please,” the Ranger orders, and the members of the company preparing for a fight hesitate before complying. Bard withdraws a small pouch that jingles with coins and hands it to the Orc.

“Why do you insist on betting against the inevitable?” The creature rasps, voice sounding like rocks grating and grinding against each other, or the rasp of a whetstone against metal.

“I hold hope that they will not always react as such. One day, Yazneg, you will be giving _me_ the gold,” the Orc, Yazneg, snorts. “Come. My master has been waiting for you for two days now.” The Orc turns and walks away; Bard follows, beckoning the company to do the same.

They share long glances. Trusting an Orc? This is too much.

The other option, unfortunately, is staying where they are, which would be dangerous once the sun set. Thorin takes a tentative step forward, then another, then another. He follows the Ranger and the Orc, and can hear the others fall in behind him. They do not walk long before an enormous archway rises out of the rock, standing at least ten Dwarves high. Thorin realizes with a jolt that this place can only be—

“Khazad-Dum: once one of the great Dwarf kingdoms of Middle Earth. Found and ruled by Durin the Deathless. The mines overflowed with mithril, a silvery metal that is as light as a feather and as hard as dragon scales: ideal for armor, as no weapon can pierce it. Ever deeper the Dwarves delved, until in the depth they awoke a demon of the ancient world: a balrog of Morgoth, named Durin’s Bane. The Dwarves of Khazad-Dum fled, and many attempts have been made to reclaim it, though all have ultimately failed. The Orcs now reside in these halls to preserve the architecture and guard the entrance into Eriador.” They walk through the arch as Bard finishes speaking, and Thorin’s jaw drops, along with many others’. The might of Moria is legendary, but tales pale in comparison to the view before him. The company slowly files its way down the stairs and across the bridge, their silence giving testament to their awe. Carved pillars and walls line the edges of the cavern they are in, and Thorin can see Orcs lining the walls on either side, watching the procession, which makes him wary even as he takes in the scene. Stepping into the next room does nothing for Thorin’s ability to breathe; the columns stretch high to an invisible ceiling, and extend in front of him to infinity.

“Let it be mentioned that the craftsmanship of the Dwarves cannot be overstated.” The speaker is a tall, pale Orc that towers over Bard. He is missing his left arm up to the elbow, and has a twisted and pronged branch of black metal in its place. There are scars that decorate his body, too symmetrical to be battle wounds, and he wears a sort of skirt that looks to be made out of the skins of animal faces (at least, Thorin desperately hopes they were animals). Pale eyes glint in the faint light, and there is a shuffling as the children press into their mothers’ sides. Yazneg bows to the pale Orc, and moves to his side. The other spreads his arms wide, looking at each member of the group, and smiles in a frightening display of teeth. “Welcome to Khazad-Dum,” he rumbles. His tongue, used to the harsh, guttural sounds of his language, wraps around the Khuzdul easier than it does the Common Tongue, and Thorin shudders.

“Thank you, Azog,” Bard says. The Pale Orc’s eyes move to the Ranger, and there seems to be a certain fondness in his gaze that Thorin did not think was possible for the vile race. Azog beckons them to follow, then leads the way through the vast cavern. Orcs move about busily, sparing little more than passing glances at the company before continuing their tasks. Firelight glints cheerfully in giant hanging braziers and large floor pits. The mood is, for lack of a better word, festive. Massive tables, some wooden, some stone, clutter the view, and some sort of meat seems to be roasting. Thorin’s stomach growls despite his unease.

The group is led to a chamber full of cots. Azog nods to Bard and then turns to leave. The Orc clearly respects the Ranger (another oddity), and as soon as he is gone, the group turns to Bard for an explanation.

“When the Men of Rhovanion attacked Gundabad, the Orcs fled their home and came to Eriador, seeking a new one. They attacked the people living there, but quickly dispersed after Azog lost his hand to a Hobbit named Bandobras “Bullroarer” Took. The people of Eriador captured Azog and nursed him back to health. They offered him the southern half of Eriador and Khazad-Dum, in exchange for a unified front against the Rhovans. When the Men of the East marched on the Gap of Rohan, the Eriadorans and Orcs caused a massive landslide that made the Gap impassible. The only way in or out now is through Khazad-Dum, which the Orcs guard, or through the Goblin passes in the Mountains, which no man or army will brave. Since then, our people have coexisted quite well together.”

There is silence in the chamber as they attempt to wrap their minds around this new information. Thorin finds it difficult to believe that Eriadorans, the dark, dangerous, and brooding people of the West, need protecting against _Rhovanion_ , of all places, given that everyone East of the Misty Mountains trembles at the mention of the Western folk.

No one wants to mention the oliphaunt in the room, but suddenly Gart, the Man-boy child of Helga and Garn, with all the tact of someone his age, says: “but Orcs are bad people!”

Despite the ineloquence of the statement, many of the others are nodding in agreement. Bard flashes a rare grin.

“Different, perhaps, but I doubt you’ve ever actually met one, have you?” Without waiting for an answer, the Ranger, who seems to be enjoying himself a little too much, says, “no doubt you thought we Eriadorans ate people for breakfast, aye? Or perhaps murdered the slaves we buy from Rhovanion? Do you believe those stories now?” Everyone shuffles uncomfortably – of course they all thought that! That was all they ever knew about the strange Westerners.

“But,” one of the Man couple’s daughters, Elma, said, “Why do people say it if it isn’t true?”

“A little bit of fear never hurt anyone,” Bard says, and Thorin worries that his face will freeze if he keeps grinning like that. “If people think we shoot first and ask questions later, they tend to leave us alone. The same is true for the Orcs. Their ways may seem barbaric to some, or perhaps ‘uncivilized’, but they are by no means mindless, violent creatures with a thirst for violence and blood. And,” he continues, the grin stretching out to impossible widths, “they are about to treat you to the finest meat and malt beer you have likely ever had in your life.”

And of course, who could say no to that?

*****

Just as Bard had said, the meat is wondrous – roasted with the best herbs and cooked until the fat is dripping. Even after four servings, Thorin’s mouth waters. Bombur is currently talking animatedly to an equally fat chef, and some of the sturdier Dwarves have gone back for fifth and sixth servings. The Elves look mildly disgusted, but even they relished in the satisfying nourishment. Kili is laughing, mouth open and stuffed with food, much to the children’s and Orcs’ delight; and the Elves’ horror, judging by their pinched expressions.

The thirty slaves are scattered around four massive tables, each hosting three times their number of Orcs. The men are all deep in conversation, while the womenfolk of all races watch their equally intermingled children run around, chasing each other, climbing on furniture, and giggling. The sight – pale-skinned Rhovans mixed with the mottled black-and-brown skin of the Orcs – is undoubtedly the oddest he has ever seen, but also heartwarming.

From the head of the table, Bard beckons Thorin to sit with Azog and the Ranger. He does so, taking his Dwarf-made ale (the Orcish stuff was _much_ too strong for him) with him. Bard has his own tankard, and Azog is drinking the fiery black stuff his people prefer.

“What do you think, Dwarf?” The Orc asks. He does not say “Dwarf” condescendingly, only as a distinguishing title, and Thorin realizes the Orc is honestly interested in his opinion. Thorin looks around again, eyes softening at the sight of Dis in heavy conversation with an Orc male and female, turning every once in a while to include the Elf sitting at her side.

“I think the food and company are excellent, and the sight is a great soother for sore eyes,” he answers honestly.

“I am glad,” Azog replies.

The hour grows late, and the women and children, led by some of the Orcs, retire to the chamber. The rest of the company remains, listening to Orcish music (louder and having more percussion than they are used to, but catchy) and great deeds of heroes past. Everyone is eventually shoved out of the dining hall for the clean-up crew, and Thorin leans against a section of wall overlooking the new cavern that the Orcs led them to. It seems to be a training ground of sorts, or perhaps an arena for tournaments. Soon enough, weapons appear, and Orc, Elf, Man, and Dwarf alike engage in bets (empty, of course, for the slaves have nothing with which they can bet) and friendly competition, either with weapons or sideline cheers.

He senses rather than sees a presence beside him; out of the corner of his eye, the Pale Orc emerges.

“You do not participate?” Azog asks. Thorin shrugs.

“Neither do you.” It is perhaps not the most respectful thing to say, but the Dwarf has ale and food in his belly, and has been treated better by the creatures of horror stories than his previous master. Things are supposed to be backwards.

Azog waves his clawed hand. “They say a weapon should feel like an extension of one’s arm. Some complain that mine _is_.” That toothy smile is back, aimed at him in what seems a friendly leer, and is somehow not nearly as frightening as before. Thorin hums.

“I have to wonder,” he ventures, feeling bold, “what made you consider a treaty with the very people that cut off your limb.”

The Pale Orc watches the combatants for a time, and Thorin thinks he may have overstepped his bounds, but then Azog finally replies. “It was…wrong of my people – of me – to attack them. We both sought the same thing: defense against the East, a home to call our own and do with as we wished. When I realized that I could have asked for the land I tried to take by force…” he shakes his head, chuckling deeply, “…an arm seemed a small price to pay for a new alliance. Of course, my people thought I had died at the hands of the Eriadorans. It took some convincing before they were willing to agree.”

“It helps, of course, that Bullroarer was so apologetic about removing your hand.” Bard says, coming up to them. “Hobbits are a peaceful folk by nature; they only go to war when that which they love is being threatened, and only then when all else fails. The Elves, too, had a say in the negotiations – I’ve no doubt that between the two, Azog felt quite overwhelmed by kindness.” He is still smiling, an upward curve that somehow seems more natural that his customary grimness. Azog nods in agreement, lips also still curled in a smile.

Thorin frowns, another question bothering him. “There are stories of Orc attacks near the Misty Mountains – horrible battles in which a few survivors barely made it out alive. If you do not seek out violence, then why do you attack innocent people?”

“Hardly innocent,” Bard mutters, snorting. It is Azog that actually answers.

“We use scare tactics – overturned carts, missing supplies, branches rustling or rocks tumbling in the middle of the night. And they are hardly innocent – most are scouts, looking to see if the East Gate is unguarded, or perhaps thieves and brigands, and the occasional Hillsman. We seek to turn them away from Eriador, not kill them. We avoid direct confrontation, but if we are attacked, we will respond in kind.”

“Those that have experienced such an…ordeal often come out remembering it worse than it was. The imagination is a terrible thing, turning the wind in the trees into a thousand dangerous enemies preparing for an ambush. It helps, of course, that Orcs are known as a vile and fearsome race in your land.” Bard adds.

“You mean to say the spiders we met only sought to scare us?” Thorin jests. Azog snorts, amused, and Bard barks out a laugh.

“No, Thorin, the spiders wanted to suck out our innards. Of that, I have no doubt.”

Presently there is a loud commotion – the Orcs are surrounding one of their own excitedly. Thorin looks in the arena to see that Dwalin has taken center stage, with the rest of the Dwarves cheering him from the sidelines. His torso is bared; axes and knuckledusters glinting in the firelight, bald, tattooed head and bristly beard making him look quite intimidating. On the other side of the arena is an Orc as pale and tall as Azog – his son, perhaps?

“Bolg is our finest warrior,” Azog says, and yes, Thorin can see fatherly pride in his gaze. “He has not lost a match in two hundred years. Your Dwarf is either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish.”

“Or both,” Bard muses. “Nevertheless, Dwalin is a natural with those axes of his – we might be in for a treat.” As they watch, Bolg and Dwalin circle one another before the Orc lunges at Dwalin, mace in hand. Bolg has the advantage of height, but Dwalin has spent a lifetime strengthening his arms and upper body at a forge, and knows how to stand against a taller opponent. He pushes Bolg off and away from him, then follows with a swift swing of his right blade towards the Orc’s chest. Each weapon is padded with several layers of leather and cloth, protecting the combatants from fatal blows, but it is unnecessary; Bolg recovers and blocks the attack with surprising speed and flexibility. They continue like that, each one gaining the upper hand for a short time, only to be routed by the other.

“I am impressed. No one has stood this long against my son for some time,” Azog admits.

“He has trained with the axes for two weeks, though he had some prior training in Laketown. As I said, he is a natural.” Bard informs him.

“Then I am doubly impressed. I do not think he will win – see his preference for the right arm? Once Bolg finds that, he will leave him only holding the left axe – but he has given Bolg more of a challenge than he has had in a long while.”

Azog is silent for a while, watching the exchange. Out of nowhere, he says: “King’s guard.”

“That was my impression, too,” Bard agrees. “If not, then a warrior of some sort. Always at the front of battle.”

“I beg your pardon?” Thorin asked, shocked.

“We like to try to determine what a slave would have been in another life, or another time. For instance,” Bard gestures to another arena, where Kili, Tauriel, and several Orcs are demonstrating their archery skills, “Tauriel would have been a warrior, perhaps even a captain or a trainer – she is good at instructing others.” Azog nods, then continues Bard’s train of thought.

“Your Dwarf, Dwalin, has the ferocity and focus of a warrior, and given his loyalty and, ah, protectiveness of you, would likely be part of the King’s guard.” Both figures turn to Thorin, whose mouth is agape.

“Do not look so surprised, Thorin, son of Thrain, of the line of Durin. Your bearing and countenance match that of the Dwarf Kings of old. Genealogies are painstakingly recorded, yours included,” Bard says. Thorin blinks, unsure of what to say, but the Ranger and the Orc turn back to watch the fight without waiting for a response.

In the end, Bolg does win, exactly as Azog said he would. With only one axe in his weaker hand, Dwalin does not stand long against the Orc, and is eventually thrown to the ground with his weapon scattered away from him. Bolg puts down his own weapon and walks over to the Dwarf, offering his hand. Dwalin takes it and stands, and amongst the cheering from the Orcs and Dwarves, leads his newfound friend over to the ale caskets.

“A good fight,” Azog says, clapping Bard on the shoulder before leaving to congratulate the two opponents.

“Indeed,” Bard murmurs eyes still on the arena. He turns to Thorin and gives a half-bow, stating his need for rest and adding, “Don’t stay up too late, Your Majesty. We leave on the morrow.” Thorin jumps at the title and watches as Bard exits the arena. He only stays for a little longer before returning to the sleeping chamber, carefully picking his way across the misshaped bundles of people before finding an empty cot near the elderly Man couple. It is not long before the warmth in his stomach and heart drag him into a peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I played with the timeline a bit – in this 'verse, Bullroarer is born several centuries before Tolkien's canon.


	7. Chapter Six: New Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's a couple chapters before I go to the Supernatural VanCon - enjoy!

The next morning, the company sets out with succulent meat added to their packs. It is a three-day journey to the other side of Khazad-Dum, and then they will be in Eriador. Before they leave, Thorin speaks with his family, and they all agree to stay with Bard, wherever he takes them. If the life awaiting them in Eriador is anything like their life on the road for the past month, Thorin will gladly take it.

The mines twist and turn, following the carved paths the Dwarves created in search of mithril, so many centuries ago. The pathways are narrow, and the columned spaces the company passes through are not as grand or detailed as the Great Hall, but the torchlight flickers off the rocks, and many times Bard touches the fire to a tar-coated wicker that zooms around the walls, illuminating the shining, silvery substance that remains stubbornly clinging to the sides of the mines. The Orcs have added some of their own architecture – handrails, for example, for which Thorin is supremely grateful. They only see a few of Moria's current inhabitants on their journey, and when asked, Bard explains that their particular path is more isolated than the less direct, but more populated, route.

They run into trouble a day before they are due to reach the entrance. Zora suddenly doubles over, clutching her stomach and crying out, and it would take a very foolish Dwarf not to understand the problem.

Bard curses. “I had hoped we could reach the outside before this happened,” he mutters, making Thorin wonder why the Ranger thought it a good idea to buy a Dwarf that he knew would give birth on the road.

The company makes camp in a large room, and Zora, Tauriel, Ithríel, Oín, and Banír move to another, far enough away that most of the cries are inaudible. The children are restless and asking countless questions, while the mothers look worriedly towards the doorway whenever a particularly loud shout from the Dwarrowdam is heard. Dis quickly reassures them.

“Dwarves are tough by nature, and meant to birth surrounded by rock. I daresay she will have an easier time of it than Dela or I did.” Dela, Fronin’s mother, nods.

Twelve worrying hours later, Bard appears in the chamber, covered in blood and carrying a small bundle in his arms.

“It’s a girl. They are both fine; Zora is resting. We will stay here for a few days so that she may regain her strength.” Bard moves out of the room as the company, particularly the Dwarves, cheer. Dwarf women are rare and fiercely guarded – any born are considered Mahal’s highest blessing.

Thorin follows Bard, curious about the cloth in his arms.

“What is it you carry?”

“The afterbirth,” Bard replies, not ceasing in his movements.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t think you want to know.” Thorin pauses for a moment.

“Please?”

Bard sighs. “The Orcs believe that consuming the afterbirth provides a new mother with strength and increases her immune system. I know that Zora will not do such a thing, so I am going to find an Orc mother that will appreciate it.” Thorin wrinkles his nose.

“Sounds disgusting,” he says.

“Maybe to you. But to the Orcs, you would be weakening the mother by refusing her this sustenance. Some might even call it abuse.” Bard glances sidelong at him while he processes this information. “It is just a different way of looking at things. Cultures that are different will clash, but as long as they can recognize the importance of the other’s tradition, even if it is unlike or repulsive to their own, they can coexist peacefully. We may think their habits are wrong, but if the mother actually becomes stronger, would it not be us who should change our ways?”

Thorin concedes Bard’s point. It is not his place to change the habits of others, even if he thinks them wrong. From years alongside Elves, and the past few weeks in particular, he knows that difference is not necessarily better or worse, and that openness leads to better things, overall.

They turn down a side passage and walk up to the first Orc Bard sees. He explains the situation, and the woman takes the bundle gratefully before calling out. There is a flurry of activity before a group of Orc women carrying various baskets and bundles appear out of a chamber entrance to his left, where the sounds of crying infants can be heard. They follow Bard without a word as they make their way back to the entrance.

“We are lucky, I suppose, that Zora gave birth so near to the nursery,” Bard comments. When they reach the entrance to Zora's room, Bard gestures inside, and reminds them to be quiet. The Orc women snort, but make their way carefully to the doors as Thorin and Bard reenter the chamber with the rest of the company.

They stay in the room for three days, with Orc women coming and going throughout that time. Thorin worries they might be disturbing Zora and the child, whose name, according to a proud and puffed-up Banír, is Bari. He is informed, however, that the Orc women are helping Zora take care of the child, as well as feeding the mother and teaching her how to properly care for the babe. By the third day, Zora is back on her feet and ready to go. They spend one more night in Khazad-Dum before making their way to the West Gate.

There is a small farewell group of Orcs that wave them off as they leave the mines of Khazad-Dum behind. Despite the Dwarvish love of rock and stone, Thorin’s life in the open makes him incredibly relieved to see the sky again. The path down to the base of the Misty Mountains is made easy by the shallow steps that wind their way around the rock face. Thorin does not want to think of the difficulty of climbing back _up_ the stairs, as this side of the mountains is undoubtedly steeper than the East side.

Staring out at the barren wilderness, Thorin likes Eriador already. There is no menacing forest of trees that they will have to pass by, though the Dwarf realizes that they will be out in the open with no shelter. Nevertheless, a strange confidence has taken root in his heart; their group will manage anything that attacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to wanderingsmith for editing.


	8. Chapter 7: A New Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to wanderingsmith for editing

Nothing of note happens for four weeks as the group makes its way steadily north. To be honest, Thorin is getting bored, but quickly scolds himself for thinking such a thing. He does not exactly _want_ something to attack them.

He barely finishes the thought before there is a howling sound that echoes from their left, no more than two leagues away. Thorin curses.

“Was that a wolf?” Kili asks, worried, his hand already reaching back to grab his bow. Bard has already stopped and unslung his.

“No. They are Wargs.” Instinctively, the group draws closer together. The children are ushered to the middle, as well as Zora and Bari. The women and elderly couple surround their offspring, while the armed form a protective barrier on the outside, facing the large rock formations and slight hills rising around them that could be hiding an enemy.

“Archers, take down as many as you can before they reach us. They don’t usually travel in packs larger than fifteen – work together.” Nothing more is said as a group of ugly creatures the size of horses come running towards them, faster than Thorin thought possible. He swings his sword out of its sheath, and it glints in the sunlight as he readies for battle.

Arrows leave bows in small _thwaps_ and _whooshes_ as the Elves, Bard, and Kili let their arrows fly, and a few of the pack stumble and fall. Thorin sees that there are far more than Bard said there would be, and is fairly certain he hears the Ranger mutter “two packs”. In under a minute, the remaining Wargs are upon them, and the archers drop their bows and grab hand-to-hand weapons.

Battle is…confusing. There are howls and the sound of clashing metal, of teeth clicking and grunts from the company. Colors flash and blur as bodies move, and Thorin cannot tell whose side is winning. He has a horrible, sickening thought about his nephews falling, or Dis, but the sudden appearance of a Warg in front of him forces him to banish all thoughts but his training instructions.

Miraculously, he survives the fight long enough to duck away from the Warg and stab it in the side of the neck. It immediately falls to the ground, jerking him forward with his sword. He removes Orcrist easily and takes a moment to see how the others fare.

Half of the warriors have maintained their protective stance around the defenseless members of the group, while the rest are scattered around the area, facing the snarling packs. They are outnumbered, but appear to be holding their own, to Thorin’s relief. As he watches, Dis’ whip snaps to wrap around a Warg’s neck. She pulls tightly, and Thorin can hear the crack from where he stands. At her back, Dwalin is battling two Wargs at once, his axes twirling at impossible speeds. Dis spins around to help him, and the two duck, spin, and twirl around each other in a deadly yet oddly beautiful dance.

Thorin’s inattention allows a Warg to sneak up and grab him roughly on the shoulder. The armor that the Orcs gave him protects him, but the pressure still makes him cry out as he is tossed a few feet away. His sword lies abandoned where he dropped it, and his other weapons fell out of their sheaths at the movement. Thorin casts wildly about for something – anything – that will protect him from the advancing Warg.

In this barren wilderness, they had come across few trees. Most were hardy evergreens, bent and weathered with time. Others, like the one standing near their battleground, were oaks, standing tall and sturdy against the elements. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin sees a particular thick branch, likely broken off by a storm. He reaches for it and brings it in front of him in time for the Warg’s jaw to close. The long teeth bite into unsatisfying wood, rather than the dwarf flesh the creature had aimed for. The Warg lets go quickly as Thorin stands, and attacks again. This time, Thorin sidesteps and brings the branch down, hard, on the creature’s nose. It shrinks away and growls, giving the Dwarf a few precious moments before it lunges again.

Thorin makes sure to keep the oaken branch between himself and the irritated animal while he makes his way back to his sword. As the Warg once again catches the branch in its mouth, Thorin swoops down and picks up Orcrist, letting go of the branch as he swings the sword up and over the Warg’s head before bringing it down in one smooth motion. The head drops, the log rolling out of its mouth, and Thorin picks the wood up again, finding it as good a shield as any.

Bard is near him, facing two Wargs at once, and Thorin quickly moves to help the Man. He catches one upside the head with his makeshift shield, drawing its attention before stabbing it in the mouth, and again in the neck. Bard uses the time to roll away from the other and swing beneath the Warg’s jaw, cutting the jugular. Thorin kills two more Wargs and then turns to find only members of the company and a lot of dead animals.

An unfamiliar excitement grips him, left over from the recent fight. Thorin has heard stories of “battle-frenzy”, when a warrior's senses are on high alert, allowing him to gather and process information quicker than normal. He assumes this is what he experiences now; his eyes still move restlessly over the battlefield, and his ears pick up every tiny movement. To calm himself down, he does a headcount, making sure that everyone is alright.

There is Zora and Bari – Banír right next to them. Bifur, Bofur, Bombur; the brothers Nori and Dori; Gloín is with Grila and Gimli, Dela and Fronin standing nearby but not interfering with the family moment; Oín is moving around, checking for injuries. Galion and Ithríel are standing together, as are the brothers, Malfinnel and Melethron; Garn and Helga, and their three children – Gart, Elma, and Nallie – share a moment, and Jorth and Gail, the elderly couple, look out at the bloody scene. Fili, Kili, and Tauriel are messing with one of the corpses – Kili is standing with one leg on its shoulder, his sword held high in the air as he strikes what Thorin assumes is supposed to be an impressive pose.

He realizes then that he cannot see Dis or Dwalin, and panics briefly, before two people step up beside him. He can see Dwalin’s bald head out of the corner of his right eye and Dis’ raven hair out of his left, and finally relaxes.

“Nice shield,” Dwalin snorts, and Thorin realizes he is still holding the oak branch. He is about to drop it when Dis grabs in and examines it. She then hands it back to Thorin.

“I think you should keep it. Just in case,” she says, before moving towards her sons. Whether she intends to celebrate or scold them, Thorin does not know. Dwalin claps his shoulder and then moves to start shifting corpses, as Bard is already doing. Thorin passes by the Ranger long enough to catch a smirk and hear “Oakenshield” muttered under his breath. Thorin blinks and stares at the branch again.

“Oakenshield,” he mutters. He sets the log down and moves to help with the corpses.

The rest of the day is spent skinning Warg hides and piling the corpses into burnable sections. They set up camp upwind to avoid the terrible smell of burning flesh and dirty fur, their backs pointed away from the gruesome sight. Bofur had grabbed several teeth out of the massive maws and is carving them for the children while his brother cooks. He has already claimed a small one to dangle from his left ear, and it hangs proudly, swinging every now and then when a child pushes at it.

Thorin, meanwhile, has taken his knife and carved the majority of the flesh out of his branch, leaving a hard shell. Bifur lends him a homemade oil that keeps wood from cracking under most duress, and Thorin applies it generously to the shield before testing the feel of it on his arm. It is a little loose, but with padding beneath it, the wood would fit perfectly. He has cut a couple pieces of Warg hide which he will attach to the branch as straps, effectively creating an “oaken shield”.

Fili and Kili move to sit on either side of him, looking at the branch in confusion. He moves it to his arm to demonstrate the use, and their expressions clear.

“It’s certainly unique,” Dis says, sitting on a log near them.

“Yes, it is,” Thorin murmurs, turning it over in his hands. “Oakenshield,” he mutters again, thinking about the term. It was certainly…catchy.

“What?” Dis asks. He repeats the term, trying to think of a way he could use it…

“Thorin Oakenshield. It does have a nice ring to it,” Dis muses. The pieces click into place, and Thorin freezes at the revelation. _Oakenshield_. A name, one that would distinguish him from everyone else.

Kili suddenly leaps up, gaining everyone's attention. “Hail Thorin Oakenshield,” he cries, “who defeated no less than five Wargs on his own _and_ saved our esteemed guide. There he stood: sword out of reach, alone against a terrible foe. Wielding nothing more than an oaken branch, he faced the Warg again and again, moving back to his weapon until he could reclaim his sword to finish the deed!” The company claps and cheers, calls of “Oakenshield! Oakenshield!” shooting around the campfire. Thorin wishes he had a cloak to bury his face in, which he is sure is red by now. He settles for glaring at his nephew instead, before turning his face away from the other slaves. The action, however, causes him to look straight at Bard, who is laughing outright and raising his mug with the rest of the group. Thorin would get no help from the Ranger.

*****

A week later, they pass over a shallow part of a river. There is nothing particularly important about this, except the very _air_ feels different. Lighter, and happier, like the golden trees of Lorien had. The trees, which had grown in numbers over the past few days, turn deciduous, the full light and warmth of summer passing through their leaves. The group moves between two large rock formations that rise thirty feet and stretch in either direction; this should not be interesting either. But the air is warm and welcoming, and Thorin feels more at peace than he ever has before.

A stone path gradually appears from beneath their feet, the bricks merging perfectly with the ground and nature around them. Thorin sees the trees stop, up ahead, and wonders what they will see in the light.

A collective gasp circles through the group. Below them is a valley. Great, tumbling waterfalls descend from the mountains to their right and flow into a river that is likely the same one they crossed an hour back. Trees grow in small clusters or thick clumps beneath, among, on, and around the rocky walls that protect the land. And rising from the ground, looking as if it grows from the stone and trees themselves, is a structure so beautiful and so obviously Elven that everyone’s mouth remains open and breathless for several long seconds.

Thorin has heard of the place the Elves call “Imladris”, a land of rest and peace for all weary travelers. The Firstborn had spoken reverently of the Last Homely House East of the Sea, claiming that all peoples were welcome to enter its domain. No evil had touched it in the time before the war, and it was assumed that after the borders of Eriador were closed, the Elves here had left for the West with those of Lothlorien.

But this place is different than the Golden Wood. There is life – not just animals and flora, but actual life. Singing can be heard faintly below, and this time Thorin is certain it is not merely his imagination. The Elves, in particular, look awestruck and hopeful, their faces more open than Thorin has ever seen them.

“Rivendell: safe haven of the Western World; a land of light and joy for all who wander into it. Watched over by Lord Elrond and his people – those who chose to remain behind when the others took the Grey Ships across the Sea.”

They descend into the valley, their steps becoming lighter as they get closer. The halls of Rivendell were obviously created with the trees in mind, and many have ivy and other vining plants wrapping around columns and statues. It is not Khazad-Dum, and certainly not Dwarfish, but Thorin can see the different kind of beauty that graces the timeless valley.

They stand on a circular platform, faces upturned as they take in the beauty around them. Thorin turns in time to see an Elf dressed in the finest clothes he has seen make its way down the stairs (Thorin thinks it might be a male, but his hair is straight and long, and the long purple robe he is wearing does not help the Dwarf’s gender confusion).

“Mae govannen, malh aew[1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1914777/chapters/new#sdfootnote1sym),” the Elf says, resting his hand over his left breast and holding it out towards the Ranger. Bard repeats the words and gesture, referring to the Elf as “Lindir”. They converse in the silvery Elf tongue briefly, and then Lindir turns back up the steps. Bard does not move.

“He is going to inform our host of our arrival, and to begin preparations for our stay,” Bard explains to the non-Elvish speakers. Thorin frowns. There is something…different about Bard’s voice. It is lighter, or perhaps higher. He is not the only one to notice, judging by the frowns and looks of shock on the other members of the company.

For the first time in their journey, Bard’s hands reach up to remove the ever-present hood. The green cloth falls, and—

Long, golden hair comes tumbling out. Bard turns to them, and Thorin jerks his head back in shock. Determining the difference between men and women of Man- and Elfkind has always been a bit of a challenge for him, but there is no mistaking this one. Soft lips, a small nose, and large, warm, gentle brown eyes sit on a clearly feminine face, made all the more obvious by the long wavy hair framing it. It is impossible, and yet anything else is even more impossible.

Bard is a woman.

She smiles, clearly enjoying their expressions.

“I am sorry about this,” _yeah, right,_ Thorin thinks, because she is grinning mischievously, “but Rhovanion does not treat women with the same respect as it does men. I meant to say something once we were in Eriador, but it took a little while to remember.” That _had_ to be an understatement.

“I am Sigrid, daughter of Bard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist! I do love a good plot twist!
> 
> So should I add "BAMF!Sigrid" to the tags, or should I keep it a surprise?


	9. Chapter 8: New Clothes

Thorin – as well as everyone else – could have easily spent the rest of the afternoon staring at Bar—Sigrid. The woman. The woman who has, apparently, been a woman the entire time, and has managed to hide her woman-ness for more than two months. Their guide is a woman.

Thorin’s one repeating thought is interrupted by a tall figure descending the staircase. The members of the company force their eyes away from Sigrid and look at the new arrival.

Lord Elrond, who Thorin assumes the Elf in front of them is, wears dusky gold-colored robes that flow around his lithe form. A simple silver circlet rests on his brow. The sight is inherently strange; Thorin has never seen an Elf Lord, as all Firstborn in Rhovanion are slaves, and have been for centuries. When the Elf speaks, his voice is soothing and full of wisdom.

“Welcome to Imladris, weary travelers; strangers from distant lands. I am Elrond, Lord of Rivendell. Tonight you will experience a feast the likes of which you have never had before; but first, we will show you to a place where you may wash away the dirt and exhaustion these past weeks have pressed on you.” Lord Elrond turns around and moves back up the stairs. Sigrid steps aside and gestures for the group to follow him. Thirty weary men, women, and children walk up the stairs, eying their guide again as they pass her, and the Ranger follows behind.

They are first led to the bathing areas, where large hot springs had been enlarged to fit whole groups of people. Soaps, shampoos, and scents line the walls, and everyone wastes no time in stepping in the baths. There are several different pools that hide slightly behind natural-looking boulders, providing privacy to anyone that wishes it. Despite the comfort offered, the promise of food convinces everyone to wash quickly – Thorin is certain they will be given another chance to truly enjoy the pools.

Once everyone is washed and dressed – grimy clothes feeling uncomfortable against fresh skin – the group mills around, uncertain of what to do next. Suddenly, a female Elf opens the door and smiles.

“I am Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond, though you may remember me as Ranwe,” she says, her voice soft. Thorin’s eyes widen as he remembers the two Rangers they had encountered near Mirkwood at the beginning of their journey. How had they traveled so quickly?

“Follow me, please,” Arwen walks out and leaves the door open, and the slaves waste no time in doing as asked. Instead of leading them to a dining hall, however, they come to a large chamber with a dozen or so doors leading off to other rooms.

“Your clothes are ragged and torn, and in need of washing. Please, pick what suits you and change so that we may wash what you have.” Thorin then notices several large piles of clothing. Upon closer inspection, he can see that, like the weapons they acquired, the clothes are a mixture of Elf, Man, and Dwarf styles. Arwen steps out of the room, and everyone moves closer.

Thorin can see Fili drawing out a fur-lined leather coat, as well as several other things. Dis reaches for a dark blue Dwarfish dress which, Thorin is sure, will look magnificent on her. Bofur selects something ratty and furry – is that a hat? Thorin will later swear, on his deathbed, that the fisherman never took it off his head once he put it on.

For himself, Thorin finds thick, dark trousers, a blue tunic, and fur boots, with leather straps and hardened leather toes, that are sinfully comfortable. He finds a simple leather belt, and is about to turn away when something catches his eye. He lifts it up and examines it. The overcoat is leather, dyed a shade lighter than his new tunic, and has already seen some wear. Sandy-grey Warg fur lines the inside and the outer edge, so soft that Thorin assumes it must have been treated a thousand times over.

It is something fit for a prince – no, a king, and Thorin is not one, despite his heritage. And yet…he swirls the cloak around his shoulders and readjusts Orcrist to lie on top of it. There is a mirror in the room in which he chose to change his clothes, and he looks at himself in it. His hair is washed, freshly combed, braided, and dried; his face is clean. The clothes look nice, but…he slips the overcoat off and grabs the armor and vambraces he received from the Orcs. They are unnecessary in such a place, but he feels the need to wear it all. Adding the coat, sword, and his oak shield, Thorin turns back to the mirror.

A warrior stares back. Thorin blinks, and sees himself – a blacksmith slave – lurking somewhere in there, but Mahal, is it distant. He twirls experimentally, watching the cloak flare behind him impressively. He actually likes what he sees.

Giggling from somewhere interrupts him. He frowns and turns to open the already-cracked door – and there are Fili and Kili, twin smirks splitting their faces.

“Uncle’s embarrassed to be caught dancing, Fee,” Kili says smugly.

“I was _not_ dancing,” Thorin growls, re-entering the main chamber.

“Of course, of course.” The brothers manage for one second longer before bursting out into great hoots of laughter. The noise calls the attention of the others, most notably, his sister.

She stares at him appraisingly, and he does the same – he was right, she does look stunning in that dress: like a princess. “Well,” she says, using Khuzdul to avoid the ears of non-Dwarves, “there’s the king that grandfather always spoke of.”

“I am no king,” Thorin replies, the Dwarfish Tongue raspy in his throat.

“Could have fooled me,” Dwalin says, coming up behind him. The leathers and furs the tattooed blacksmith has found make him look like some sort of hunter or Wildsman, tall and terrifying. Despite his ribbing, the axes strapped to his back and the knuckledusters on his hands make him look exactly like what Azog pegged him as: a King’s guard. And Fili and Kili—Thorin looks back at them. The clothes they are wearing, clearly chosen as a testament to their heritage, have more intricate designs than the others around the room. Kíli’s tunic has golden thread stitched in the fabric to create angular patterns, and his belt is made of intricately woven leather strips. Fili's overcoat, like Thorin’s, has a heavy fur lining, though his is a more golden color, bringing to mind the stories of massive cats from the South called ‘lions’. It matches his flaxen hair perfectly.

He realizes he has been staring for several minutes, yet no one in their small family comments. Indeed, they each seem to be sizing each other up, gaining new perspective.

A knock on the door jolts them out of their thoughts, and they turn in time to see Sigrid standing in the doorway. She has freshened up: her hair is braided and hanging over one shoulder, slightly damp, and she is wearing a shimmery golden-brown Elf-styled dress that generously accentuates the curve of her hips. There is nothing now that could ever, ever, ever make Thorin think that she was male—his thoughts are drawn short when out of the corner of his eye he sees Fili's gaze move up and down the woman’s figure in an appraising glance. He glares at Fili while Dis elbows her son subtly but firmly in the side. Fili's grimace is the only sign of his discomfort, and Thorin admires his fortitude; Dis packs a mean punch.

“You all seem to be ready – it’s time to eat,” Sigrid announces. The group wastes no time in filing out the door, many of them giving Sigrid compliments as they pass. The Ranger woman smiles, and it looks far more natural on her than her alter ego. Her eyebrows raise, and a playful twinkle enters her eyes as Thorin passes by her in his new finery, but she does nothing except snort and shake her head in amusement.

Upon arriving at the banquet halls, Lord Elrond barely says more than a brief welcome while everyone sits down, and then the food is brought and set on the table.

Beorn’s house had offered breads, cheeses, and vegetables, as well as delicious honey mead. The Orcs of Moria had treated the company to succulent meats and ripe ales and beers. Here, though, the Elves of Imladris have combined all that and more. There is wine – the finest that can be bought, according to Lindir – and many different kinds of ale, beer, and mead of Man, Dwarf, and Hobbit make (the last is surprisingly strong), as well as non-alcoholic beverages for Zora, as a nursing mother, and the children. In addition to roasted pig and deer, beef is on the table, as well as fish made in ways even the residents of Laketown had never tried, and birds of various sorts. Salads, cheeses, soups, and breads of all colors, smells, and flavors are placed wherever they fit, and the company is advised to save room for dessert. Dessert! How often had the sweet tooth that every Dwarf suffered been satisfied?

It is heavenly. Cakes, jellies, pies, and other things Thorin does not have names for lavish the tables in all sorts of colors, incredibly detailed art decorating some of them to the point where Thorin is loathe to see them eaten (not that he doesn't – it is all too good to resist). While they stuff themselves fuller than they have ever been, jovial music from fiddles, flutes, and drums surround them, quite different from the serenity that Thorin has come to expect from Elf-kind. Conversation is light, laughter common, and they leave late in the night feeling as if they will have to be rolled to their beds (Bombur, as it turns out, does need to be rolled).

Rivendell is a place for weary travelers, and as such, undoubtedly has a room for every family – every individual, if they want it. So Thorin is somewhat surprised to arrive in one big chamber, similar to the one in Khazad-Dum, with beds spread haphazardly around the room. Before he can ask, though, Sigrid speaks in a voice low enough that only he can hear.

“So many times, we have put people in their own rooms, but they always find their way back to the group. It’s a stronger bond than you’d expect. We don’t want people to forsake goose-feather beds and pillows for family comfort, so for the past few years we’ve simply put everyone together. No one has ever complained.” Thorin nods; it makes sense. Traveling together, as they had, drew people close. They had seen battle and darkness, experienced friendship and grown trust among each other. Separating now would be…strange.

Sinking down onto his chosen mattress, Thorin does his best to muffle his groan of pleasure. He is sitting on heaven, he is sure of it. He barely gets his weapons, armor, and boots off, muddled head cursing his past self for feeling the desire to wear them, and lies down. He is asleep the instant his head touches the pillow.

*****

They spend a week and a half in Rivendell, enjoying the food and touring the valley. Thorin must admit that the peace and beauty of the place, though different from ideal Dwarvish surroundings, is relaxing and, in some ways, healing. His mind is constantly soothed by the serenity around him, and he cannot help but let a few burdens go.

In his time there, he is dragged to the library by Dis, who has always been, surprisingly, bookish. He also visits the Hall of Fire, a place of music and poetry. It has an odd effect on his mind, slightly unsettling, but the music is sweet and sad and overall beautiful, and the Elvish words wash over him like a soothing river or gentle caress; more often than not he finds himself nodding off.

Strider, who introduces himself as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, explains that this is not uncommon. Thorin spends a great deal of time with the Ranger, learning of his work in Rhovanion (scouting for slave prices **,** apparently) and of his love for Arwen, his traveling companion. Thorin also asks about the existence of male and female Rangers, wondering about the rules. Aragorn only shrugs and tells him that anyone who wishes may become a Ranger, so long as he or she can show the discipline, dedication, and strength required of someone living in the wilds for long periods of time.

The eve of their departure arrives, and Thorin wishes they could stay longer, surprisingly; yet his feet also itch to move forward and see new lands, and his final destination. And so he gathers with the rest, who stand in a large courtyard where, to his surprise, their clothing from Rhovanion is clumped together in one large pile. It looks clean, yet the careless way in which it has been placed makes something twist in his gut. So little care was given…

Lord Elrond and Sigrid stand next to one another in the light of the setting sun. Sigrid holds a torch in her hands; once everyone stops moving, she looks at each of them and begins to speak.

“These clothes are ratty and ragged, and unfitting of anyone – even slaves. They serve as nothing better than fuel for a fire.” There is some shuffling and muttering, uncertainty and nervousness apparent in the slaves’ faces. “The clothes you are wearing, however, are of good make, and will last a very long time – a lifetime, if you want them to. It is your choice, for they are yours, now. With these,” she gestures to the pile, “you may do as you wish. I highly recommend burning them. After all, they are the epitome of poor fashion in Eriador.” There is a mischievous grin on her face, as youthful and troublesome as his nephews can be, and Thorin realizes she is serious.

No one speaks or moves. Suddenly, Thorin steps forward hesitantly. He reaches out to her, and she hands him the torch. He holds it, making eye contact with each person – making sure that this is what they want. He sees no resistance, no uncertainty. In the space of a few seconds, the slaves have grown taller, their backs ramrod straight, their eyes determined. _Do it,_ they say to him.

“Well, Oakenshield?” Sigrid asks quietly. He swallows and tosses the torch onto the pile. Something in the cloth, or perhaps the soap, spreads the flames, and a bonfire blazes to life before them. The light is reflected on everyone’s face – solemn and moody.

There is a soft chuckle that comes from Thorin’s left. Kili has a strange smile on his face, which then stretches to a full-blown grin.

“Ha!” he calls, and grabs Tauriel’s hands in his, spinning the both of them around in an inelegant dance. Fili is dragged into the circle, and the three of them laugh and prance. Their mood is contagious, and soon others are joining in. The Men-children grab Fronin and dance, dragging in their parents. Bifur clasps Bofur and Bombur’s hands, and they spin round and round and round. Within minutes, nearly everyone is laughing and spinning, before creating one large circle, all the way around the fire. Thorin is dragged in by his sister, who also ropes Dwalin in. Grila and Gimli snag the Elves, and little Bari, from her place in Banír's arms, reaches for the elderly couple. He is not sure what they are celebrating – a new life, perhaps? A better one, certainly. He does not care. For once in his life, his family is well-fed and well-clothed, and he knows – just _knows_ – that his future will be as good, if not _better_ , than what it is now.

*****

They leave the next morning with light hearts and joyous expressions. The thought of being back on the road seems to only boost their spirits: the sun is high and warm, the birds are calling, and a breeze carrying the water of the Bruinen (according to one of the many maps in Rivendell's library) is winding through their hair and refreshing their lungs. Nothing can go wrong.

The next two weeks are, unbelievably, even lighter than past travels. Sigrid actively participates in their evening discussion, telling tales of her adventures and often recalling music from different lands. Thorin never realized how quiet she – or rather, Bard – had been, but of course it makes sense. Now, their guide keeps her hood down, and a smile seems permanently etched on her face. The nearness to her homeland seems to be lifting her heart even more, and she laughs and plays with the children as well as any sibling would.

Flat, desolate lands give way to marshes (mercifully dry in the summer heat), and then to gentle, wooded hills. Everything here seems greener – more vibrant, as if someone had leeched all the color out of Rhovanion and flung it over Eriador. During one particularly spectacular thunderstorm, they take shelter in an abandoned but stable barn while watching the sky flash blue and vibrant purple. And then the black clouds passed over the Misty Mountains to the East while the sun lit the grass a golden green; the most vivid and beautiful rainbow Thorin had ever seen painted itself across the dark sky, with second and third reverse rainbows faintly resting above and below it.

One day, as they walk, Nallie suddenly perks up.

“Can you hear it?” she asks, pointing ahead of them, where the trees block their view.

“That is the Brandywine River,” Sigrid announces, and sure enough, the entire company begins to hear the sound of crashing water ahead of them. Within a few minutes, a large river is seen, with a narrow stone bridge crossing over it. Beyond the opposite shore, rolling green fields and farmland appear, and what Thorin swears are _doors_ rest in the sides of small hills.

“The Shire: our final destination.”


	10. Chapter 9: Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry it took so long. Getting ready for college, and all that!
> 
> Here is the last chapter (then there's an epilogue) - hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

Hobbits. Thorin had never seen a Hobbit in his life, yet now, apart from the company, they are the only people he encounters. Some are farming, others tending their gardens, or sweeping the path, or sitting on a bench and smoking. They look upon the company with curiosity and Sigrid with recognition – a wave and a “hullo!” before returning to their tasks. They are short – at least a foot shorter than Dwarves – and have incredibly curly hair, large ears that taper like Elves, and enormous feet covered in hair. They have no beards – not even the men – and wear calf-high trousers and light-colored cotton tunics, for the men, and short-sleeved dresses that go to mid-calf and bonnets for the women. Most are well-rounded, but the greatest impression they leave is of kindness.

Not at all like the red-eyed demons of Rhovan horror stories.

Their arrival seems to be expected, or at least the word has spread, for Hobbits start lining the streets to watch them pass, chattering excitedly. The group takes a turn, and suddenly people – not just Hobbits, but Men and Dwarves and Elves – are there as well. Some cheer as they pass, as if they are war heroes and not a group of exhausted slaves.

_But why are there Elves and Dwarves?_ Thorin wonders. It is a question that has plagued him since Rivendell – why are these people allowed to roam free? Why do they look so happy?

Eventually they are led to a large hill with a Man-sized door – rectangular, not round like the other doors they had seen in the Shire. Sigrid opens it, and the group is ushered inside. It is a house, Thorin realizes – maybe even Sigrid’s house. A variety of random items pile up on available surfaces, though nothing clutters the floor. The walls are a light-colored wood, and windows carved from the hillside let in plenty of natural light.

“Sig!” a woman’s voice comes from somewhere inside.

“Tilda,” Sigrid replies, grinning when a young woman, who looks like a younger version of Sigrid, comes through the doorway. They embrace briefly before separating, and Tilda looks at the group, raising an eyebrow.

“So many?” she asks.

“I had extra coins,” Sigrid replies, shrugging. “Haven’t lost anyone, either,”

“You never do,” Tilda states, shaking her head and smiling. Footsteps are heard; then a man with dark hair and dark eyes steps through. He smiles at Sigrid and grasps her forearm.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my sister Tilda and my brother Bain,” Sigrid says by way of introduction, waving her hand at the two. She then leans in and mutters something to Bain, who nods and disappears through the doorway.

Sigrid leads them quickly through several rooms before coming to a large door. She pushes against it as if it is heavy, and instead of the opposite side of the hill, a stone hallway lit with torches appears. The door, Thorin realizes, is wooden on one side but rock about a foot deep on the other. The house had steadily sloped down into the hill, which means that the hallway is underneath the part of the Shire they had already seen.

Despite it being underground, the space around them is very well-lit. Natural light from above is reflected in mirrors and spread about, and torches glimmer on the walls. It is not Dwarfish, but the sheer size of the place can only be compared to a Dwarf-fortress – similar to how Thorin imagines Erebor to be. The hallway they are in leads to multiple pathways, all cut so that they can see clear across to the other side of the—city? It is as if Hobbiton (as Sigrid had named the Shire town they had passed through) is only a small portion of the land, and the rest extends beneath it – perhaps all across the Shire.

There is a lot of activity – people of all races move up and down stairs, scurry through hallways, and nearly run into each other. Some carry papers, others: food, and some simply seem to be running. Thorin realizes that each home in a hill likely has connections to this underground city.

As they descend some stairs, a blond Elf-man runs up to them and stops directly in front of Sigrid. He looks over her head, scanning the group intensely.

Thorin hears a gasp behind him. “Legolas?” Tauriel’s voice quavers slightly.

The Elves maneuver their way around the rest of the company and stand for a long time, staring at each other. They seem to reach for each other’s forearm, as is the traditional Elvish greeting, but simultaneously throw their arms around the other and hold tight. Legolas looks questioningly at Sigrid, and she waves her hand, smiling. The two Elves skitter down the steps and disappear within moments, leaving the rest of the group to stand there, dumbfounded.

Thorin suddenly turns to Kili, wondering at this development. He does not look happy, but when he notices Fili's questioning glance, he says, “Legolas and Tauriel grew up together, for like, hundreds of years. She thought he was dead.” The scowl does not disappear, but at least his nephew seems to accept whatever is between the two.

Sigrid leads them to a large chamber, in the middle of which there is a stone seat – a throne – resting on a slightly elevated dais. Upon the throne sits a Hobbit. He wears velvet robes of rich green and deep red, with a golden vest beneath, brown trousers like the rest of his people, and no shoes. His hair is a honey-gold color, and his eyes are either hazel or pale blue – the lighting seems to cause his irises to oscillate between the colors. A crown, crafted of wood and flowers, rests on his head, and he seems wise, gentle, young, and cheery all at the same time.

“Sigrid,” he greets, and she dips her head respectfully. His eyes roam over the group. “Thirty exactly – you did not lose a single member. I should not be impressed, at this point, but I suppose I am. Congratulations,” his lips quirk in a smile, and Thorin’s impression is that he is the most down-to-earth king he has ever heard of.

“Thirty-one, actually,” Sigrid bounces on her feet, “one was born on the road, and Tauriel left with Legolas already.”

“Ah, yes,” the Hobbit muses, “he was so desperate to see her again,”

It is incredibly odd that this king knows the name of a slave, or pays attention to one’s desires. Thorin frowns – something is not adding up.

“Well,” the Hobbit says, “welcome to Eriador, and the Shire. I am Bilbo Baggins, King of the Upper and Lower Shire, and the surrounding areas. Please, call me Bilbo, if you will, or King Bilbo, if you must, though I hope you mustn’t. Titles are dreadfully annoying.” And with that he stands and steps off the dais.

King Bilbo is shorter than Thorin, and does not command presence or respect, yet there is something gentle and welcoming about him that makes Thorin want to listen to him. The Hobbit’s eyes are kind, and he honestly seems to care about this ragtag company, which confuses Thorin to no end. After a slight appraisal, the Hobbit King nods.

“Very well, then,” he says, “get them washed and cleaned up and prepared for the feast,” his eyes twinkle. “You will have the finest of all the food from the greatest chefs of each race that Eriador (and the world) has to offer. Even Rivendell cannot compare: that I can assure you.”

*****

They go through a similar process as they did in Rivendell, though without the shock of a man revealing himself a woman. They are also allowed to keep the clothes they have.

When they are brought to the banquet hall, people of all races are already seated and laughing, with food sitting and waiting for them, though no one is eating yet. King Bilbo sits at the head of the central table, which has spaces still missing people around it, and Thorin notices other such empty places among the tables. Sigrid tells them to find a seat – anywhere they can – and the group scatters. Thorin finds a spot where five people can sit together – there are Men, Elves, Hobbits, and Dwarves already sitting around the seats, and they cheer when Dis, Dwalin, Fili, Kili, and Thorin settle down with them, offering their names and exchanging pleasantries that the Dwarves have never experienced in their lives. They respond as best they can, and are just falling quiet when a clear ringing echoes throughout the hall.

King Bilbo stands and holds his hands out for silence. He looks around the hall, waiting for everyone’s attention, and Thorin can see Sigrid standing just behind the Hobbit lord’s chair.

“Stand up, milord, we can’t see you!” someone shouts, and chuckles resonate throughout the hall. King Bilbo rolls his eyes but moves to stand on his chair, much to their amusement.

“I have one question for our new companions from Rhovanion—how does it feel to be free?”

The silence is deafening. The people around them seem to be waiting for something – an answer or a reaction, while Thorin’s companions, including himself, sit, slack-jawed. After several long seconds, King Bilbo’s chuckle breaks the silence.

“I see Sigrid saved the best for last.

“You see, when the Rhovans gathered and stormed all the East, crushing resistance under their feet and enslaving the rest, we took a stand. We said no.

“You will find no man, woman, or child here who is not here of their own free will. No one owns, or is owned. The Elves of Rivendell stand with us, and we ally ourselves with them, and with the Orcs of Moria, whose friendship is closely treasured and wholly appreciated.

“You see, we must protect ourselves against the Rhovans. We must keep them from enslaving us, as well. And in that endeavor, we also free the slaves of Rhovanion – we buy them, yes, but as soon as you crossed into Eriador, you were free, for slavery is illegal here.

“Here you will do what you wish, where you wish, when you wish. There are, of course, rules that everyone must follow – but not even I am above them.

“Welcome to freedom,” and with this, he sits down.

Silence reigns again as the company absorbs this. Thorin’s mind is on repeat, saying the Hobbit king’s words over and over in his head as if that will translate them into something that makes sense. Freedom? Never, not ever in a million years, is this what he could have expected.

Noise to his left grabs his attention. Fili is standing up, a goblet raised in the air. He looks nervous, but stands tall and speaks.

“To the Lady Sigrid, without whose help we would never even dream of such a feat,” Thorin is standing and roaring his approval before the action registers, but he is not alone. Thirty people – even children – stand up and raise their glasses, jubilant thanks magnifying in the hall, and hundreds more stand and join them. Thorin can see someone has pushed the Ranger forward, and she stands there, shuffling awkwardly, as everyone chants her name. The noise continues for several minutes before King Bilbo is standing again – this time on the table – and demanding silence. It takes two more minutes before everything quiets down.

“Yes,” the Hobbit says, “we have much to thank Sigrid for. Usually, when a Ranger seeks out a company, we hope that they will keep their number. Sigrid bought thirty people – one would expect, at that size, for at least one to pass during the trip. But instead,” he laughs again, “she comes back with one more! We ought to welcome Bari, daughter of Zora and Banír, into our midst. I would like to personally congratulate Sigrid on bringing home more people than we have ever achieved before.”

People are shouting and chanting “Bari” and “Sigrid” for several more minutes, but when the Ranger raises her glass, silence falls quicker than it did for the King.

“I do not do this for the number, as many of you know,” Sigrid says, and her voice, though quiet, is clear and strong. “I do this for my father, may Eru rest his soul, and for my mother: both slaves of Laketown, freed by the kindness of Eriadorans.” Mutters of surprise from the company are heard around the room, but the other listeners seem to know this story.

“However, my favorite part of bringing people here is next: this, in my opinion, is the best for last, Bilbo,” Thorin notes the familiar use of the King’s name, though it does not seem to be a surprise to most. Everyone straightens up, however, and looks excitedly at the Ranger woman.

“While bringing families together is preferable, in some cases some people are left behind. A Ranger must often choose between bringing a mother, father, and child together, or leaving one that is strong behind so that another might survive – an elder, perhaps, or the sick and weak. One who, by staying in servitude much longer, will die.

“We also try to listen to the requests of former slaves. As some of you know, Legolas, a beloved Elf among our people, has long asked to be reunited with his childhood friend,” she gestures to a table full of Elves, where Thorin recognizes the fiery head amongst her dark- and fair-haired kin.

“That wish has finally been granted. But it is not the only one.

“Will Ori, son of Dri, step forward?”

From two tables away, Thorin can see Dori and Nori do double-takes.

“Ori came to Eriador five years ago, and has since been an invaluable member of the scribe community. He is the head librarian here in the City Under the Shire, and not only aids in the recovery and restoration of old tomes, but also has numerous apprentices that promise to be the future in record-keeping.

“Ori has often spoken to me of his older brothers, Dori and Nori, worried about how they would get along together since he wasn’t there to separate them. Ori, it looks as if they are healthy and hale, though a little ragged. Please, join them before something disastrous happens.” There is a smile on Sigrid’s face as Ori all but runs to the table where his brothers are. Dori and Nori stand immediately and wrap their tiny brother in a shared embrace. The scene is heart-warming, and several minutes go by before the three are seated, the younger between the two older brothers.

“When I went to Rhovanion three years ago, I intended to buy an entire family. It became obvious to me, however, that I did not have nearly enough money, as this family is particularly large, especially for Dwarves. I managed to gather the mother hen and all her little chicks, but unfortunately the father had to remain behind. It really is a shame, too, because Bidri has informed me that her husband can cook ten times better than she can, which must be truly amazing food.” A Dwarrowdam and a flock of Dwarflings appear behind Sigrid as she speaks.

“I look forward to having Bombur join the wonderful chefs of the Shire. If you will – follow your family, please. They have their own table set up.” The rotund Dwarf moves faster than Thorin thought possible, with Bofur and Bifur close behind. Dwarflings swarm the three, creating a pile, and Bombur moves with half a dozen attached to his stomach, arms, legs, and shoulders, following his wife. Bofur and Bifur are likewise encumbered, but the smiles on their faces say that they could not care less. Sigrid waits until they are off to the side before speaking again.

“When Dwalin, son of Fundin, was first described to me, I pictured a large, fluffy toy bear,” Thorin, Dis, Fili, and Kili all choke back laughs while Dwalin glowers at them. “When I first saw Dwalin, son of Fundin, I thought I must be mistaken. Tattoos, burly arms, bushy beard, and currently wearing knuckledusters, he certainly does not present the image of a helpless child in need of protecting.” Fili and Kili are shaking now; Dis’ hand is pressed to her mouth, and tears of mirth are forming in her eyes.

“Yet I reminded myself that no matter how old, tough, or capable a person is, their older brother or sister will always see them as someone to watch over. I am well experienced in that area, and I could understand Balin’s concern.” A Dwarf with a forked white beard steps out from behind the King’s chair, eyes locked on Dwalin. He walks over to his younger brother, and the tattooed blacksmith scrambles to stand, eyes curiously misty – and Thorin will never let him live it down. Though, hell, he can see Dis pressing her hand to her chest, and Thorin most certainly _does not_ need to blink several times.

“Evening, brother,” Balin greets, his calm words contrasting with the emotion roiling in his eyes.

“By my beard,” Dwalin chokes out, “you are shorter and wider than last we met.”

“Wider, not shorter. Sharp enough for the both of us,” Dwalin grins widely and places his hand on the shorter Dwarf’s shoulders. The accompanying _bonk_ is heard throughout the room, and several Men rub their heads in sympathy. The people around them scoot down so that Balin might sit, and Dwalin looks as if he will murder anyone that tries to separate them. When the older Dwarf turns to look at Sigrid, the others do the same.

“This next meeting is many, many decades late, and for that I am truly sorry. There is no excuse, for myself or my predecessors, for this long separation, yet I will still ask for your forgiveness. If things had been different – if someone was suffering terribly – you would have been joined together much sooner. As it is, your strength of character and will to live prolonged this meeting. Nevertheless, it has been far, far too long.” Sigrid takes a deep breath.

“Will Frerin, son of Thrain, and Thrain, son of Thror, please step forward?”

*****

His father has grey hair where Thorin remembers black, and more lines on his face than he has ever seen; Thrain lost an eye, he says, on the way to Eriador. But beneath it all is the same gaze and the same smile.

They stand together, speaking occasionally, watching the others dance. The feast had been better than Rivendell, as the King had said, but Thorin suspects it was due to the company more than the food.

“They are good of heart,” Thrain says, gesturing to Fili and Kili. The dark-haired Dwarf is dancing with Tauriel – or perhaps bouncing and spinning is a better term – and Thorin remembers his nephew’s relief when the Elf-woman had slipped over to him after the banquet, introduced her friend, Legolas, and pulled Kili away to the dance floor.

“Yes, they are,” Thorin murmurs. Despite the century that stretches between their last meeting and this, he does not feel the need to fill the silence with words. Instead, they stand side by side, watching Dwalin pull Dis around the dance floor, surprisingly good, with Balin holding an unfamiliar Dwarrowdam in his arms close by. Fili is talking to Sigrid – likely flirting, or attempting to, and Frerin has disappeared.

“Likely to find his wife,” Thrain murmurs when Thorin mentions it, a strange smile crossing his father’s face.

At that moment, Thorin sees his golden-haired brother grasp Sigrid’s hand and pull her away from his nephew in a bold dance move. She leans back into his arms as he easily supports her weight and leans over her, staring at her for a long time before leaning the rest of the way down and kissing her. Fili looks distraught, while Thorin is confused.

“I thought you said he was looking for his wife,” Thorin asks his father. Thrain looks away from whatever he was staring at to see the two blondes sway together on the dance floor.

“Ah, and it looks like he found her. Never been fond of social gatherings, she has, but he hates it when she leaves for months on end. They compromise.” Thorin spits out the ale in his mouth and claps his palm to his forehead. Of course his brother would marry a Man-woman.


	11. Epilogue:

The Hall of Kings is magnificent and packed to the brim with Dwarves, Elves, Men, Hobbits, and Orcs. The Men are in the clear minority: the Rhovans shuffle awkwardly against their bonds, wary of the guards standing behind them.

The war had gone incredibly well, all things considered – even better than the conquering of Rhovanion the Men had achieved more than a thousand years ago. It was due, Thorin thought, to the cooperation of the slaves.

The plan had been set in motion five years ago, only six months after Thorin began living in Eriador. Former slaves began sneaking back _into_ Rhovanion, accompanied by their “masters”. Nori, in particular, was especially adept at winding his way through the streets of Rhovan towns, unseen by the slaves that were loyal to their masters. He had spread the word – “get ready, prepare to fight, for freedom rides to Rhovanion” – and they had responded. When the combined armies of Eriador (the Shire, the Elves of Rivendell, and the Orcs) marched forward, through Laketown and up to Dale, the masters rallied their slaves, only to find themselves cornered by many very angry people. The lords and ladies were gathered by the Eriadoran armies and brought to the great Mountain, and the Dwarves collectively took one steadying breath before marching upon their own homeland and defeating everyone in their path. Now all the peoples of Middle Earth were gathered in the largest space in Erebor: the Hall of Kings.

Thorin, whom the Dwarves had unanimously chosen as their “general”, stands on a raised platform with Bilbo and Sigrid (Bilbo, of course, being the leader of the Hobbits, and Sigrid chosen my the Men just as Thorin was by the Dwarves), while Lord Elrond and Legolas, who led the Elves together, stand with the onlooking crowd. Everyone has a drink to toast the upcoming speeches, and they wait eagerly for the King to speak.

Bilbo stands, smiling, with his hands clasped behind his back. He is adorned in fine robes, as well as the mithril shirt and jewels that Thorin, as leader of his people, had personally gifted the Hobbit King. The Hobbit allowed very few decorations on his person, but had agreed to the jewels to honor Thorin; and, of course, wears his floral crown, as always. Finally, he speaks.

“A thousand years ago, when Rhovanion darkened, the people of the West united against the threat. Afraid of the same control from Men that the East received, they instead elected a Hobbit – a Baggins of Bag End; my ancestor. That first King of the Shire vowed that, until the day that the enslavement of Free Peoples was abolished, he and his descendants would serve the whole of Eriador, as needed, and toil constantly to bring an end to this tyranny. Today, a thousand years later, this dream is realized.” He pauses for the cheers that fill the hall and surrounding corridors. When the noise dies down, he speaks again.

“Hobbits have never had need for Kings or anything as fancy as titles – a ‘mister’ or ‘miss’ is plenty for us. Being raised to be King and defend our people does not change this simplicity. I am a Baggins, and a Hobbit, and I have fulfilled my many-times-great-grandfather’s wishes. There is no need for a King anymore.” He reaches up and removes the crown on his head, to the numerous protests that echo around the room. The wood and flowers are slowly spun in the Hobbit’s hands as he contemplates the crown.

“I have one final act I would like to complete: one last wrong that needs to be righted.” Bilbo returns the crown to his head, and turns and meets Thorin’s eyes. The Dwarf frowns in confusion. Bilbo gestures for Thorin to stand next to him, and he does so, looking out at the eager crowd. His eyes find his family, and the companions he traveled with six years ago. One face is painfully absent; Thrain had passed only a year ago, but not before declaring that Thorin would be the greatest of Dwarf Kings the world had ever seen. Thorin had only snorted and said he did not deserve such a title, and was rewarded with a look of exasperation and disbelief permanently plastered on his father’s face.

“He looks the part, don’t you think?” Bilbo asks the room at large. Excited voices rise in agreement, some hidden message becoming clear to them. Thorin is not certain what he means; very little about his appearance has changed for the past few years, save for the impressive belt he found in the treasure hoard of Erebor (the location of a secret vault containing the most valuable craftsmanship of his people was passed down through generations of Dwarves until one of the slaves told him). There were a few rings, a key, and some hair beads he inherited from his father, and he had found an armored tunic and a thick, dark blue knee-length vest to go beneath his fur-lined cloak.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo says, interrupting his musings. He turns his head to look at the short male.

“I am sure, from his place in the Halls of Waiting, that your father is proud,” the King says softly, his voice reaching only the people on the dais. Thorin’s throat constricts. Thrain should be standing here, accepting this—whatever it is.

“And I think he would agree with me when I say: you deserve this.”

Bilbo moves Thorin to stand in front of him, his back to the audience. His voice rings out, clear and strong.

“Do you, Thorin Oakenshield, swear to uphold the laws and justice of these and all Dwarf lands?”

Understanding begins to dawn in his mind, and Thorin forces himself to speak around the sudden block in his throat. “I swear.”

“Do you swear to govern and decide by the people, of the people, and for the people in all matters lawful, social, and financial?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear to stand against all injustice, and speak against wrongdoing? Do you swear to provide aid to those in need? And will you, to the best of your ability, and at the cost of your life, if necessary, protect and defend your people and all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, be such a decision sound in judgment and for the greater good?”

“I swear and I will,” Thorin vows. His voice is strong, but he thinks he may fall to his knees at any given moment as the magnitude of what is happening registers.

“Then by—you’re going to have to kneel, Thorin, I’m not that tall,” Bilbo says, amused, as he draws his short sword, Sting. The onlookers laugh as Thorin gratefully drops to his knees.

“For my last act of King, by the power vested in me, I pronounce you, Thorin, the second of his name, Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the rightful King Under the Mountain.” The sword touches both of his shoulders, and Thorin stays kneeling, head bowed, as Sigrid’s feet appear in his vision.

“Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, you have accomplished the task set forth by your ancestors, and restored peace and equality to the lands of Middle Earth. Do you, by removing your crown, relinquish all power and influence and vow to spend the rest of your days as a gentle-Hobbit: a simple Baggins of Bag End?”

“Gladly, I do,” the Hobbit replies, and Thorin raises his head enough to see him remove the wooden crown one last time and place it on a pillow that Sigrid holds. There is another crown on it, silver and angular and the epitome of Dwarvishness. Bilbo takes the pillow from Sigrid and she reaches for the metal crown before turning to Thorin.

“Now come the days of the King, may they be peaceful and prosperous.” She lowers it, and it rests gently – perfectly – on his head. “May they be blessed.”

Instinctively, Thorin rises and turns, facing the crowd. The shouting reaches new decibels as the people rejoice. His eyes find Dis – her own are misty as she smiles proudly at him. Fili and Kili are dancing around before they turn to him and bow low; mockingly, but the happiness on their faces is incomparable. His gaze sweeps the rest of the crowd. Various members of the company make eye contact and smile at him. Frerin is grinning widely and bowing like his nephews. Azog, standing tall in the back, splits his face in that creepy-feral smile of his and holds up his mace. Bolg and Dwalin stand next to each other and raise their respective mugs. Everywhere the people are dancing, drinking, and celebrating, and throughout the night the cheer can be heard:

“Long live the King! Long live the King! Long live the King!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all, folks! Hope you've all enjoyed it. Shout out to everyone who has followed this story from the beginning, as well as one last, huge thanks to wanderingsmith for editing!

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of notes for this fic:  
> 1) Races will be referred to with capitalization (Elf, Man, Dwarf, Hobbit, Orc), and genders will be referred to with lowercase letters (man, woman, girl, boy), so, for example, a human girl would be called a Man-girl; "Man" refers to the race, whereas "man" refers to the gender.  
> 2) Northern Middle Earth is effectively split by the Misty Mountains; to the West are Arnor and Eriador, and to the East is Rhovanion. For this fic, anything west of the Misty Mountains is called "Eriador" and anything East of the Mountains is called "Rhovanion". People from Eriador are called "Eriadorans" and people from Rhovanion are called "Rhovans" (not to be confused with Rohan and the Rohirrim).
> 
> I would like to thank the absolutely wonderful wanderingsmith, who fixed my funky vocabulary and polished this story until it shone (and put up with me!).


End file.
